


Dear Archangel

by BrightWingsAndBroomsticks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Aspirational Logistics, Bela Talbot Redemption Club, Daddy Longlegs AU, Engineer Dean Winchester, Epistolary Nonsense, Estranged Winchesters, Fantasy Grad School, Foster Care, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Love Letter to Michigan, M/M, Mentions of child neglect, Ten Thousand Tragic Backstories, Writer Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightWingsAndBroomsticks/pseuds/BrightWingsAndBroomsticks
Summary: Castiel honestly never thought he'd get to study writing at the post-grad level - he wasn't even sure he'd get to do much of anything after finishing undergrad on his own dime with Foster Mom Naomi Novak breathing down his neck. But when his short story in the school literary magazine gets him a scholarship to the year-long intensive writing program of his dreams, he doesn't hesitate to leave the farm he was raised on to pursue the career he always assumed was a pipe dream. The only weird part is that he has to write every month to his benefactor, a mysterious person who has declared they will never meet in person. But what's a little extra correspondence to a writer as prolific as Castiel, right?Or, the modern Daddy Longlegs AU nobody asked for.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	Dear Archangel

June 26, 2017

Mr. Novak:

Congratulations. You have been selected as the recipient of the Millicent Greenwaldt Memorial Scholarship. This prize is awarded to one University of Michigan-Flint student each year as he or she graduates with a degree in creative writing or poetry, and is intended to be used toward a graduate program of the student’s choice.

You were chosen for this honor with the support of your professor, Dr. Eleanor Visyak, who informs us that you have been accepted into a graduate-level program at The Garden, and the organizers of this prize would like to sponsor your position there. If you choose to accept your place at this program, all tuition costs will be covered by the Millicent Greenwaldt Memorial Scholarship.

By the terms of The Garden’s own rules, room, board, and meals for the year-long program are included within the general tuition fees. You will also receive a small stipend of $1000, monthly, as part of the scholarship agreement, to be used toward incidental expenses related to your graduate program, and other pre-career investments.

The benefactor who administers this scholarship has set several rules for you, should you choose to accept your place at The Garden. These requirements are outlined below.

  * The benefactor would like to receive a letter from you each month as you proceed with your graduate program. They wish to hear some about your progress in the program, but you are free to discuss whatever you wish in these letters.
  * This benefactor wishes to remain anonymous. You should address all letters to: Mr. Michael Smith, 525 S. 1stSt, Ann Arbor, MI, 48103
  * You should not expect a response to these letters. But be assured that you were chosen personally by your benefactor based on your writings in the winter edition of the _Michigan Quarterly Review_
  * Your benefactor wishes that you simply write within the next month to acknowledge whether or not you will be accepting the scholarship, and also respectfully requests that you refrain from general expressions of gratitude throughout the duration of your correspondence.



Your benefactor looks forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

The Board of the Millicent Greenwaldt Memorial Scholarship

~

**_The Letters of Mr. Castiel Novak to Mr. Michael Smith_ **

**~**

July 14, 2017

Dear Mr. Smith,

As you are, apparently, aware, my name is Castiel Novak, I am 22 years old, and I have quite recently graduated from the University of Michigan at Flint. I grew up on a small dairy farm outside Grand Blanc, Michigan, where I was raised by a woman who now fosters a number of children.

Good grief, this has already devolved into unbearably formal rubbish, and I honestly cannot keep it up. Ordinarily I would apologize, as you are to be my benefactor and are almost certainly an elder. But, frankly, I think the best way for me to show you respect in this endeavor will be to offer you more honesty than such stiff rhetoric can afford. As I understand the situation, it was one of my snarkier, more satirical short stories that inspired you to sponsor me in the first place. So, I have to imagine you would prefer a more vibrant tone in my correspondence, anyway. If I am wrong in this assumption, please do not think me impertinent. Simply get word to me that you would prefer a more formal turn of phrase in future letters, and I shall…do my best.

Speaking of my own impertinence, I am going to have to begin by breaking one of your rules. I simply cannot accept a gift of this magnitude without thanking you for choosing to bestow your generosity upon me, particularly. You must understand: with this remarkable scholarship, you have done far more than provide me the means to attend a once in a lifetime post-graduate program. At the same time, you have freed me from what might have become an impossible situation. If this were the Regency Period, I expect Jane Austen would say you’ve “given me prospects”. As it is, I shall instead say that you have given me hope.

Let me explain. I’m not sure what you’ve learned about me from Dr. Visyak, but my upbringing was not what you’d call “overly pleasant”. I was an orphan, taken in somewhat grudgingly by a strictly pious farmer. When he promptly died, I was left in the care of his rather severe wife, who regularly assured me that she only kept me around to impress the other women at church with her generosity. Eventually, she also came to appreciate the government’s own generosity as regarded her status as foster mother, and she expanded her horizons to take in other children. I became useful, then, as I could be enlisted to look after the younger children. The ones she had chosen.

I don’t mean to be morbid in telling you this. Nor do I mean to be entirely ungrateful- Mrs. Novak allowed me the shelter of her home and adequate food, luxuries which not all children can manage, and for these facts alone I am sincerely grateful to her. But you should know that without your intervention, I truly do not know where I would have ended up come August. Mrs. Novak only agreed to let me go to college in the first place on the condition that I paid my own way and vacated her home after graduation, and the former left me with little funding to accommodate the latter in any sort of comfort. I certainly would never have been able to attend The Garden without the aid of your munificence.

I know, it’s all very Disney’s Cinderella, isn’t it? (Minus the evil step-sisters – my foster siblings are perfectly lovely). But thanks to you, the melodrama ends there. I shall make the journey Up North next month for three semesters of writing and nature and freedom, and Naomi Novak no longer has to endure the burden of my presence. No one loses here.

So, thank you. I hope you can appreciate why I will likely never stop thanking you, at least in my mind. And you shouldn’t expect me to, sir: I deserve to express my gratitude just as you deserve to accept it.

Enough about the past, then. I’m sick of it, honestly, and I defy the belief that all writers must be maudlin and subtle in their self-reflection. I am being set free from one hell of a cage, and I am determined to add a bit of irreverence to my life. (At least in writing—I’m told I come off as “odd, serious, and dryly witty” in person. And yes, “Odd” always comes first...)

So, I shall let my glee flow (internally, so as not to make Mrs. Novak suspicious that I might be too happy for my own good), and prepare to embark on the next chapter of my life (aha, the writing puns begin!) with newfound hope.

Yours truly,

Castiel Novak

~

August 1, 2017

Dear Kind Stranger Who Saves Orphans from Hideous Fates—

Confession: I’m not sure whether or not I’m supposed to write to you this month, as far as the contract for your scholarship is concerned. As you well know, my program at The Garden does not begin until September, but Dr. Visyak impressed upon me that I’m expected to write to you every month. I’m not sure how well you know her, but I can assure you her “stern face” is utterly terrifying, and it was out in full force when she went over the terms of this arrangement. As a result, today you get a pre-program letter so that my dreams will not be haunted by a disappointed Dr. Visyak for the rest of my days.

First order of business: thank you very much for sending the first installment of my stipend so early. It will be a great help as I make my way Up North at the end of the month. I was beginning to consider hitchhiking to the campus to save some extra money, and I don’t think that would have ended well. Hannah tells me I somehow simultaneously give off a “creepy intense vibe” and have “distressingly kissable lips”, either of which would surely spell my demise as a hitchhiker. (Hannah being my closest friend from college, who you have never met and therefore do not know. Apologies. This is what I get for writing my letters by hand “like a hipster”.) Thanks to your kindness, I now plan to rent my own car for the journey, instead, which will be far safer. And, I expect, far less pungent.

Next, a question of vital importance to my survival this year: What am I supposed to call you? As you might have noticed, I already find myself utterly unable to address these letters to “Mr. Smith”. Given your desire for complete anonymity, I cannot imagine that this is your actual name, and it feels far too cold and clinical, in any case. I received no admonishments about tone after my last letter, so I must assume you are as averse to formalities as I am. “Mr. Smith” will not do.

Ordinarily, in an effort to establish casual discourse, I would take a stab at first names, but that feels unspeakably rude. We have not met, and I have been led to believe that I should never expect to meet you, or even receive return correspondence. (As we have already established, though, I possess an immense quantity of hope, and as such will keep my fingers crossed for a change of heart on that score, someday.) “Michael” is unacceptable, let alone “Mike” or some other business-casual derivative. Even I, impetuous youth though I may be, would not presume quite that much. So? Is there something else I can call you?

I know, I know, I’m not to expect a response, so questions like this will merely evaporate into the void, unanswered. But I would like to propose a deal. I have devised a rather silly nickname by which I intend to address you hence. If you are opposed, you will simply have to write to tell me so. You need not put in great effort: it can be a blank card that says only “No.” Like a cheap telegram. For that matter, you could dispatch your secretary send it. I’m sure you are a Very Busy Man, after all. The choice is yours. If I do not hear otherwise, you shall hereby be addressed in future correspondence as “Archangel”. (Get it? Michael? Don’t laugh: I warned you I was raised by Evangelicals. And we have already established that “odd” is my most persistent quality.)

I must sign off now. Mrs. Novak is out, and dinner needs making. But I look forward to writing again when I have things to tell, Archangel. Until then, adieu.

Your humble servant,

Castiel Novak

~

September 3, 2017

Dear Archangel,

See, isn’t that a much better opening?

I’ll take your silence on the matter of nicknames as a resounding “yes”.

I am happy to report that I have arrived in Charlevoix, Michigan quite safely. The drive up wasn’t terribly long, but I appreciated the hours of solitude it afforded. Frankly, the span I spent confined to my rather luxurious rental Prius gave me much needed time to recalibrate as I left the farm for the last time.

To be honest, the final goodbye affected me far more acutely than I anticipated. I’m generally a rather level-headed being, at least in action. I find heightened, dramatic displays of emotion uncomfortable and counterproductive, and public displays of affection generally baffle me in the worst possible way. I prefer to observe the world with calm; to take it in, analyze and process, and channel the results (after careful study) into the written word or quiet discourse. Feeling myself momentarily overwhelmed with a rush of emotion as I drove off down the freeway was an altogether bewildering experience.

A large factor in my emotional upheaval was almost certainly a reflection of the younger children’s goodbyes. Little Alfie, who is only seven, but has been on the farm for several years, was especially distraught at my departure. His tears will be branded in my mind’s eye forever, I think. He has seen far too much in his young life, and it nearly broke me to leave him behind. But leave I did, with a promise to write him constantly for as long as he wishes. I absolutely sped away once I had entered the car, but had to pull over as soon as I lost sight of the farm to compose myself. Having never had a breakdown like this, I was unnerved, but I suppose the catharsis was needed. It’s hard to start a new chapter without turning the page, no?

If you’ll indulge me, I have some more self-reflective ideas about why this parting moved me so. Your contract seemed to encourage such musings, so I feel secure in sharing. Strange, isn’t it, that you seem to invite such confidences even in your anonymity?

In all my reading—and believe me, there was no shortage of that pastime in my formative years— the trope of leaving home has solidified itself quite definitively in my mind. Whether the moment depicts an uncertain goodbye from the Shire, a swift escape from Thornfield Hall, or a devastated pull away from Oz, a thread runs through. A breaking with something unspoken and divine. There is a distinct before and after separation, and even if before was unpleasant at times, the narrative tells us that the hero still feels its absence.

If I remain honest, as I have promised to be, Archangel, I have no such warmth toward my childhood haunt. I distinctly remember an utter bereavement when I closed the final cover and left Hogwarts for the last time, because I knew no visit could ever quite surprise fresh life out of me in the same way again— though returns still bring a bright nostalgia, they never match that first pure bloom of wonder. I suppose this is what I expected to encounter as I ventured into the unknown, but I found it was quite conspicuously absent. The farm remains barely more than a place I existed. A place where I was raised with a minimum of everything, and almost entirely without the luxury of human affection.

And perhaps that is where the problem arises. I am sure Mrs. Novak tried very hard with me as she suddenly took on the burden of home, farm, and family on her own. But the reality of my life has been to live in one home for twenty-odd-years and still remain utterly orphaned. Some younger ones stayed for years, but they were more my charges than my siblings. I gave them, as best I could, what I was without, because in my humble and supremely uncultured opinion, no child should grow to adulthood seeing affection as a luxury. From everything I’ve read and seen outside of Angel Farm, children are meant to be given love constantly and with abandon. They are meant to be positively drowned in it, and I am certain the sheer lack within my experience has played a major role in my less-than-rosy view of Mrs. Novak. Despite my reluctance to leave Alfie and Anna behind, I was still desperate to leave, and the departure has felt like a strange emergence into a life, rather than the next story in a life partially lived. I seem to have escaped a timeless, grey place, and I am determined, now, to see my subdued childhood experiences as unique rather than cruel. I wish not to dwell on it, but to observe its peculiarities in relation to the rest of the world. To learn from it, write it, share it. Perhaps I am not a victim so much as a prophet. Or perhaps I am simply a survivor. Either way, I intend to offer affection to the world wherever I can, in my “intense” and quiet way, even if I can only do so through my words.

And on that note, let us turn from the morose onto the new and exhilarating!

I write this letter to you from a remarkably comfortable lawn chair on a deck overlooking the glory of Lake Charlevoix. It is sunny, though sunset approaches, and a breeze is ruffling through my already disastrously messy hair. My feet are still coated in sand from a dip in the lake this afternoon, and I feel more awake in this moment than I ever did on Angel Farm. The world offers possibilities, breaking in these glistening waves, beaming down from these mountainous clouds.

Behind me sits the building to which my deck is attached, and consequently the largest house into which I have ever even stepped foot. I would call it a mansion, but my experience of such stately homes is purely theoretical, and I could be wrong about the terminology. In any event, it is enormous, and I can easily see how one man living here alone would quickly turn to the first available means of filling it.

I’m not sure how much you know about The Garden on the whole, Archangel, and I suspect you are unlikely to tell me. So, allow me to impart upon you the things I have learned about the place since my arrival.

The owner of this breathtaking property is one Dr. Charles Shurley. He inherited the estate from a rich father, as I understand it, and immediately locked himself inside to write his first set of novels. Now that I have seen where he wrote that series, I must say that the creeping paranormal quality of the story makes perfect sense. If I were living here alone, I too would come to believe in deadly flesh-eating spirits. I also might come out of the experience, like Chuck, behaving in a manner that is just a tad…let’s say “scattered”. He’s certainly what Hannah would diplomatically call “a character”. But I’m looking forward to learning from his method, if simply as a roadmap to locate inspiration within a world of utter chaos.

So, Chuck (as he prefers to be called) finished his first series, and invited some old school friends up to the estate for a writing workshop that snowballed into the intensive 1-year graduate level program we have today. Two of those friends from the original workshop, Professors Fergus Crowley and Cain Mullen, now work here full time, and Professor Pamela Barnes just signed on a few years ago. She’s quite fiery, and I must say it is highly entertaining to watch her direct her own mix of teasing, sass, and badass-ery at the male instructors across the dinner table.

We will also have a visiting instructor later in the year, as I understand it, but for the moment we are settling in to our first semester with just the four professors and the Estate’s staff.

When I say “we”, of course, I mean myself and my six fellow students. I wasn’t planning to spend much of my time this year writing you about my contemporaries—I expect this entire correspondence is an exercise in monitoring my academic growth rather than my socialization. But this is truly the most fascinating compilation of people I have ever encountered, and I simply cannot resist sharing. The usual disclaimer applies: if you wish to make it stop, you must reply to tell me. So. Until then, meet my classmates.

Down on the bottom floor of the individual student rooms in the North Wing (I was not exaggerating: this place is enormous) we have Garth and Kevin. If this were a late-1990s teen comedy, they would be introduced as “the nerds”. (Though let’s face it: everyone living at the Garden right now is a massive nerd of some flavor or another.) Garth is of the unapologetically perky variety, and Kevin, so far, appears to just be wound tighter than a rubber band ball. Let’s hope we can help him untangle a bit this year.

On the second floor, we have two brilliantly contrasting personalities in the misses Becky Rosen and Krissy Chambers. Becky occasionally makes Garth’s enthusiasm bow down in supplication (which is impressive—he brought a sock puppet to our orientation luncheon). She, somewhat unsurprisingly, professes to write only romances. Professor Crowley actually face-palmed at that statement, but they must be excellent romances to have landed her in this program. Krissy, on the other hand, is more kindred to myself, if much younger. Apparently, she fast tracked through school as fast as Kevin (meaning she graduated high school at 16), and her dry wit is music to my ears.

The true sarcasm queens, however, share the third floor with myself. To my room’s immediate right lives Miss Bela Talbot, the sort of person who you expect to have a roman numeral or “Esq.” at the end of her name. I haven’t worked up to asking her about her Cotillion just yet, (I am positiveshe had one, frilly white dress and all) but I’ll let you know how that turns out.

Last on our hall is the inestimable Meg Masters. As of yet, I cannot tell whether she likes me, likes to make fun of me, or wants to jump my bones, but I imagine it’s a combination of all three. So far, she has declared me “the only sane cow on this ranch”, given me my very first nickname (“Cas”), and upgraded me from my usual title of “odd” to “a strange one”. Oh, and she also smacked me affectionately on the behind this morning, which was…different. I’ve never had to come out to someone as an act of defense before, but that strange conversation might be in my future.

(And, it occurs to me, I haven’t actually come out to you either… Apologies for the abruptness of that. It’s never really been anything but an open secret in my life, despite Mrs. Novak’s supposed piety. So, yes, I’m quite gay. I hope that’s not uncomfortable for you. Though, given what you know of my writing already, I rather doubt it’s a huge surprise. I can’t imagine many homophobic benefactors would read a vaguely sardonic story about a ghost-hunting collective of teenage lesbians in 2060s Detroit and immediately exclaim, “Who wrote this? I must bankroll their post-graduate studies immediately!”)

Anyway, I’m digressing all over the place. I should probably let you stop reading my nonsense so that you might return to your Very Important Life. As you do, simply picture me on this porch in the evening sun as Meg drops pieces of grass in my hair under the mistaken impression that I’m unaware.

Best Wishes, Archangel.

Cordially,

The newly dubbed “Cas” Novak

P.S. An Update: Bela rolled her eyes at me quite dramatically, and informed me that it was not a Cotillion, it was a “Coming Out Ball”, and that she “looked perfectly marvelous, thank you”. That certainly made my own more metaphorical coming out much smoother once Meg, Krissy and I had finished cackling.

**~**

October 7, 2017

Dear Archangel,

I’m finding it hard to believe that a month has passed since my last letter. It feels like barely a blink has elapsed between that first afternoon writing with the spectacular view of Lake Charlevoix in sight, summer breezes persisting despite the traditions of autumn’s arrival. And yet, I feel as if I have travelled far too many miles to have only seen one month go past. But here we are, October whisking our little band of creatives toward a lakeside winter bound in words, flakes, and blazing torrents of inspiration. That’s my prediction, anyway, given the month that has just transpired.

In the thirty-three days since my last correspondence, I have barely ventured any further than the confines of the house and its grounds (formidable, yes, but largely made up of rooms, trees, and a small stretch of beach). However, I already feel like a world traveler. I recall encountering much the same feeling when I first received the responsibility of a library card. I dove head first into literature, testing the waters slowly with Mrs. Novak— (oh, to hell with it. I’m 21 and she will never read this, so I will henceforth “grow a pair” and dispense with the strange formalities!). When it became clear that _Naomi_ (oh, so liberating) was uninterested in tracking my literary education long enough to control it, I quickly gravitated toward those texts I had expected to find forbidden. Whether fantastical or questionable or outright banned books, I inhaled all of it in the moments I could carve out between homework and housework, and my world expanded exponentially with every page. Even stories set in the mundanity of any given “now” gave me such a newness to explore. I was acquainted with so few people (and knew even fewer) that having a guide through any new experience led my mind into previously unimagined galaxies without fail. It was, truly, my first taste of the world. Of humanity. Of magic.

This is still what drives me to read to this day (and the Garden has one hell of a library, let me tell you). But this autumn has brought me a new source of magic by way of the creative process. This isn’t entirely new, of course—I did opt for a Creative Writing degree, after all, despite the apparent reality of my post-graduate circumstances. But this—this is new and utterly beyond.

I’ve been trying to define the how and the why of it all. I imagine you’re thinking that’s a fruitless pursuit, and you’d probably be right. Why examine a transcendent experience when I should just be experiencing it, eh? Well, I cannot help myself. Call it a curse of my trade. I must wonder, explore, dissect. It has become my nature, for good or ill

To be fair, I think the expected elements—the place and the program—play a major role in casting this spell. There is a stunning beauty in peace and space and nature here that even Angel Farm could not quite capture. The silences are rich and full here, simply dripping in muses. Stories seem to drift in every breeze, and I’m catching as much as I can manage in my little butterfly net, filling scrap pages with fragmented thoughts and unborn ideas for a rainy day. It’s almost overwhelming, really.

But the deeper transformation, I think, is uniquely my own. It is a specific awe that can only be born in an isolated child. And I’ll confess, it has been years since I felt so like a child, despite my physical youth. I am, in a word, giddy. There are possibilities here that need not be invented or imagined because they stand before me and speak my name. Even in a home full of children and revolving farmhands, I never experienced such open connection. (Well, perhaps Hannah came close, but our time together was always far too limited by class periods.) Here, suddenly, I am sought out and considered constantly by like minds who leapt from strangers to friends with an effortlessness I have never encountered.

I’ve joked at you before about being considered “odd”. I don’t feel sufficiently qualified to make a judgement of this kind upon myself, being so inexperienced in the alternative. But the feeling of being “other” has always been a pervading feeling in my heart. I was largely un-socialized until school, and while there the dedication to work ethic had been too deeply indoctrinated to allow me much beyond my lessons. Toss these facts in with children’s general resistance to unknown quantities, and you come out with a thoroughly educated outsider. I have known myself to be exactly this since I was old enough to consider the matter, and I have been resigned to all that could entail.

But arriving on the shores of Lake Charlevoix I have found a whole new variety of reception. These are people who waltzed in with enough certainly of their skill that they apparently felt no need to fear each other. I had already passed the unspoken test simply by being invited, so any posturing was limited to the meet and greet, then thrown unceremoniously out in the lake. Awards and achievements will not make a bit of difference until the program has ended. It’s quite refreshing.

So, here I am, having been welcomed immediately and thoroughly, for the first time, into something of a little tribe, and we have arrived speaking not only the same language, but in similar dialects. True, our actual writing styles and focuses vary quite widely—this was, Cain says, intentional. It gives us all the opportunity to observe a new type of writer in process and to explore what we can learn from their experience that might translate into our own. Pam even warned us that our third semester project will very directly aim us into uncharted waters in this way to help us explore where we think the limits of our own talents are drawn, and I’m looking forward to that with the delicious uncertainty of fresh anticipation. 

(Ah, and I should probably specify, in case you are unaware, that all the instructors here have insisted we eliminate honorifics and formalities when referring to or about them. I promise my uses of single names is not intended with disrespect; it is an act of obedience.)

So far, this semester, we’re simply being asked to write. As often as possible. The general idea is to simply get ideas down and start to form them, bring whatever we have in to the various professors for guidance in their various areas of focus, and workshop together as a full group when we can. We read each other’s work, sometimes aloud, give ideas, point out angles, discuss potential directions and the commentaries they might cause. If nothing else, those discussions demonstrate the fascinating cross-section of backgrounds our collection of housemates offers. From the heiress to the suburbanites to the orphans, there are so many experiences to pool together, and I can already feel it opening up my mind to new avenues of potential.

If I were feeling particularly poetic, which I am sure Cain would appreciate as a firm believer of the divinity of poetry, I would say that the name of this place refers to more than the lovely grounds themselves. We are a little collective of gardeners here, with instructors offering their expertise to help us come together with all manner of tools to prune and plant, to take stories we assumed to be weeds and fertilize them into flowering. Or perhaps our inner writers are the plants in this scenario, which must be coaxed and nourished into letting stories bloom. Or perhaps I’ve already stretched this metaphor well past the breaking point. In any case, even as winter approaches, I can already see where the buds will form.

If you were hoping these letters would focus on me simply relaying what I’m working on, well, I think we’ve already established that’s not my inclination. Unless you decide to object, I would prefer to keep the details of that largely within the walls of this building for the time being. I’d rather not send you awkward synopses of the short stories I’ve been playing with when I could send you the finished product in the future. Would you like that? I’d certainly enjoy sending them to you, once they are complete to my satisfaction, if you’d be amenable. It would feel like having a confidante, a parent even. Or grandparent—my (woefully incomplete) mental image of you seems to waffle back and forth between a strong middle age and a distinguished 70+. (I must confess, it also cannot decide whether you are only partially or entirely bald, and I hope that does not offend you too terribly. I have very little to go on, you understand, and “Smith” offers me precisely zero clues.)

I, therefore, will not be sending you summaries today. But, I will tell you, that I have been bouncing from topic to topic as much as I can, trying out anything that jumps to mind, to see where else I can be taken by my work. I might as well enjoy the freedom while I have it, right? Unless I have some sort of magical success and publish five novels next fall, I will likely be beholden to someone else for my topics of study in the real world, at least as I start out. I intend to take full advantage of this restriction-free-zone.

Well, that’s a slight exaggeration. While we can write about anything, we are expected to at least occasionally adhere to the rules of grammar and structure, especially if Crowley has anything to say about it. He is the resident Editor Extraordinaire on our faculty, the king of composition, and a demon with the red pen if you forget to edit thoroughly. Honestly, I think he thoroughly enjoys being contrary, so the job seems to work out well for him. So far, he hasn’t been as displeased with my style as with some of the others. Though he did spend nearly a quarter of an hour during the Thursday session extolling about the apparently excessive use of quotation marks in my work. He maintained that it makes me sound sarcastic all the time. Apparently, in his view, that is a problem. I, being a generally sardonic person and already far more comfortable in this space than in your average classroom, did not keep my response to myself. I solemnly explained to him that this punctuation phenomenon occurs because my “sincerity skills” are a bit “rusty”, pulling out my trust hand quotation marks without shame. Meg fell off her chair laughing. Crowley raised a single eyebrow, very flatly said, “Funny” in his traditional sneering British tone, and moved on to a rant about Meg’s own use of clinical terms in sex scenes. But I tell you, Archangel, I felt his respect in that single pair of syllables. We have the tenuous understanding of two kindred, cynical spirits, I’m certain of it. (Let’s just hope he never becomes aware of my indecent use of parentheses in these letters. He might spontaneously combust.)

I will leave you with that for now, Archangel. I would like to dive into a new story idea this evening, and I must first write back to Alfie, who is struggling to decide on a costume for the school’s Halloween parade. Imagining his intense concentration as he makes this choice is bringing me the closest to homesickness that I have ever achieved, and I want to help him if I can, even from afar. Naomi (!) certainly won’t help—she thinks the only suitable costume for her children to wear involves wings and a halo. (Did I mention she’s a little fixated on this angel thing? Maybe that was implicit in the name of her farm, but it’s far more excessive, even, than that.)

With Love,

Castiel

~

November 1, 2017

Dear Archangel,

Confession: the blank page with just those words has been sitting on my desk for nearly a month now. I wrote them the morning after I sent off my last letter, having formulated a plan to write in pieces this time. Rather than sitting down at the start of November and trying to recreate all the stories and details at once, I had envisioned this letter as a sort of diary of stories, anecdotes relayed in real time, aimed to make you smile, to laugh, to at least be touched in some way. This was my plan.

Instead, I sat down day after day, and systematically rejected each anecdote as supremely superfluous, even vacuous, and certainly unimportant in the life of an important man such as yourself. How on earth, I repeatedly wondered, could a man with the means to toss around entire tuition fees like bar tips be expected to care about the menial musings of a student he has never met? You know me barely better than I know you.

I, who do not know your real name or profession or even generational identity.

I, who must sit here now wondering if it was a misstep to refer to you as “he” only a moment ago, because we both know that a pseudonym is no guarantee of gender presentation or personal identity.

I, who want so desperately to have someone with whom I might share my life, but have only an address and a lie with which to correspond. Or, rather, at whom to write.

Perhaps my experience here is not as unique as it feels at present – I am certain I cannot be the only young adult to abruptly realize that a feeling of being deeply important to someone was entirely manufactured within the bounds of my own heart. I suppose I should be grateful that my own discovery comes with minimal embarrassment. Sounding silly and naïve in a few letters is nothing to the realities of divorces, abuses, and other broken hearts. But finding myself utterly frozen in this way has proved plenty dispiriting. I feel chastised, both for jumping to ridiculous conclusions and for taking my actual blessings for granted in my frozen grief.

The fact of it is, you are my benefactor, nothing more. And while your request that a writer write to you does, to be frank, invite a certain intimacy, I rather doubt this was your true intention. You wished to be certain your money was being put to thorough use, and perhaps to be diverted by the occasional pun in the process. It was foolish of me to expect anything more personal from a person who can have no interest in knowing the child behind the words.

You’ll have to forgive my bluntness today. And I do mean that you will _have_ to, as, no doubt, there will be no response to this letter. You will have no opportunity to withdraw forgiveness. And I maintain that you should not even if you could. You have, in a sense, led me on with this assignment. Teasing a lover of words with requests that will not be acknowledged is as cruel as any false invitation, you see, and I have to believe it is worsened by my isolation within the world. I increasingly understand that new friends, while much appreciated, are no match for deeper kin. Even Meg, who has never once mentioned or answered a question about her family, clearly has a tight-knit clan of old friends, kindred spirits who actively seek her advice and give their own, who can sit on the phone for an hour with no vital words passed and still feel the joy of their familiarity. I find I want that desperately, and since I cannot ever have that from a silent acquaintance, I must end the torture of this hope.

That is not to say that I plan to stop writing to you, of course. I fully understand the guidelines of my scholarship, and have no intention of shirking them, as I am truly grateful for your generosity. I do not wish to sound churlish in my explanation today. You have utterly changed my life, giving me a view down a path I have long dreamed of treading. But, from today, I intend to show my gratitude with reports of my work, rather than rambling descriptions of an inner life unrelated to your world. This seems more appropriate, anyway, I suppose.

So, in that regard, you should know that I am still having an excellent experience with the program. While a bout of the flu has been disrupting rapidity of my work over the last two days, I feel confident that I will be able to catch up quickly once I am recovered, and do not expect any true ramifications. The staff is helping me take care of my health, and I am doing what I can to prepare ideas through the fog of illness. I will update you further on the progress of my work in my December letter. 

Sincerely,

Castiel Novak

~

November 7, 2017

Dearest Archangel,

Last night, I awoke after dark from a fevered dream to find the Estate utterly silent. The illness with which I have been battling for a little over a week had peaked early in the morning, and I had found myself unable to do much more than sleep as it ran its course. Waking to find my aches subsiding was quite a positive sign. But it was nothing to the joy I felt only moments later. I rolled toward the window and there, spotlit by a moonbeam on my bedside table, was a vase overflowing with delicate purple flowers.

My first wild thought was that Joshua, the Estate’s gardener, must have collected them for me from the grounds. But then, of course, it occurred to me that it is November, and even without knowing much about the growing of irises, I could safely assume they do not naturally grow to be so vibrant in the frosty northern autumn weather. In any event, there was a card on a stand sticking out of one side, much like one might see in a florist’s shop window.

Oh, Archangel, the way my heart leapt as I read the message on that small card! It was quite brief, of course, a simple “Get Well Soon”, signed with your pseudonym. And I expect the crisply slanted handwriting was that of your assistant, or even the florist, but I like to daydream that it is your own.

But I need you to know that this simple little 2x3 card holds within itself so much meaning, despite its ease and brevity. Archangel, it tells me that you read my letters. Not only that, but given your quick response, it tells me you must read them as soon as they arrive. Perhaps that seems like a small truth to you. But in a succinct little world like my own, to have my silliest thoughts met at the mailbox with anticipation, as though they might matter? It means more than you can know.

I cannot thank you enough for thinking of me, sir, especially after the frigid and petulant tone of my last note. Please forgive me for my unkind words? I was deeply embarrassed, you see, for the way I had imagined you into a friend, even family, without a single hint of reciprocation. I was suddenly sure that to care for you was beyond naïve, childish even. Perhaps I had invented an impossibility, thinking you might care for me as a relation or pen pal or even a parental figure. I was terrified that I had conjured you entirely, and as the fever mounted I spiraled deep into conspiracies and suspicions and lost all semblance of decorum. I can never apologize enough for lashing out at you, a stranger who is both my benefactor and my reader, two designations most sacred to a keen writer. I hope you can accept my apologies and allow me to recapture your trust.

And please, for heaven’s sake, burn that last letter. I cannot bear to think of you rereading the ramblings of my sickest, loneliest, cruelest moment and thinking these are my true feelings for you. I assure you, Archangel, that is not the case. And I intend to work as hard as I can to prove my gratitude to you in all future writings.

So, Archangel, let me return to my usual irreverent tone as I update you on the goings on at The Garden, shall I? You don’t seem to have objected to my tone in the past, (at least not as much as you seem to object to my being ill and/or sad).

Let’s see, what have you missed during my October-long letter-writer’s-block? Well, early in the month we learned that Becky, our resident romance novel fanatic, is actually quite an impressive poet when she puts her mind to it. Even Cain, our most poetically inclined professor and the author of the assignment itself, was speechless after she finished reading a heartbreaking long form iambic piece about freshly requited love. Frankly, we were all shocked. I suppose given her tendency toward excitability and grand dramatic plot lines, we had all expected Becky to be a superficial writer, obsessed with idyllic romance to the point of cliché. But she has certainly proved us wrong over the course of our recent poetry studies. And shame on us for doubting her, really. Even the most predictable of tales can be deeply personal and fraught with nuance, whatever the literary world might proclaim, and we would do well to shed elitist views if we wish to open ourselves to possibility in our work. I’d say we all owe Becky for the reminder of that fact.

Shortly after that fateful poetry reading, I made the mistake of mentioning to Bela that I only owned a single suit, originally purchased off the rack at Kohls, which she proclaimed a “cardinal sin, given the beauty of my physique”. She then teamed up with Meg and Krissy to kidnap me a few weeks ago, and we took a little trip to Gaylord to not only shop for 3 new suits, but then to visit a tailor’s shop as well to have them personally fitted. It was quite a day, let me tell you. And I never thought I’d say this, being largely uninterested in fashion, but when I stepped in front of the mirror in a freshly tailored suit for the first time, I felt rather exceptional. All the ladies were quick to tell me I looked “sharp” (and even “hotter than hell”, in Meg’s case), but more even than that I felt very adult. Even “normal” in a way I never truly achieved in my early life. Something about striding out of the fitting room in a three-piece suit made the future I face, full of publishers and backers and possibly even press interaction, seem much more achievable. Silly, of course – clothes cannot manufacture success, I’m perfectly aware. But I found I could draw a measure of strength from the well-shaped fabric, and I imagine I’ll need that strength as I continue on my way in the autumn.

What else? Well, Garth’s mother has been sending some increasingly elaborate gift baskets, and he has been quite happy to share with the rest of us. The last one was quite impressive, I must say. (Though not nearly as impressive as my irises, I assure you!) But, well, it’s hard to top a box that quite literally explodes in a shower of candy upon opening. Though, I imagine Garth and Kevin won’t enjoy having glitter coating their possessions for the rest of time.

I suppose those are the most amusing points, for the moment. Thanksgiving is fast approaching, so I am quite glad to be rid of my cold. I’ll be staying at the Estate for a quiet holiday with Krissy, along with Chuck and some of the staff, which should be quite restful. I’m also hoping it will be productive, which I’m told is very un-American of me. Apparently, I’m supposed to spend the time off deliberately not working, even though I’ve missed nearly a week of work time to my pounding head, but I cannot see the wisdom in such suppression. Why force myself to stop writing when it is, in fact what I enjoy? Ah, well, Meg won’t be around to wheedle me about it over the weekend anyway, so I suppose I’ll be able to do as I please, in the end.

Bela, it seems, is planning what she calls a “Friendsgiving” the weekend before the actual holiday. I’m led to believe this will involve her driving Meg and I to Traverse City on Saturday for dinner in some sort of cozy restaurant and a night in a Bed and Breakfast. I’m quite looking forward to it, actually. I’m assured it will be like a traditional slumber party, though I can’t say I’m overly familiar with how that might work. It should be quite fascinating, if vaguely indulgent.

Well, Archangel, my attendant nursemaid (one Meg Masters) tells me I am required to “stop writing and go the hell back to sleep before I catch my death”. And if you ever have the misfortune to be on the receiving end of her surliest glare, as I am now, you will understand why I feel compelled to obey. She has powers even the darkest among us cannot imagine.

So, for tonight I shall simply curl up in bed to gaze again at my beautiful flowers, wishing only that they could live forever.

Until next month, my dear pen friend, Adieu.

Yours,

Castiel Novak

~

December 1, 2017

Dear Archangel,

I have a bone to pick with you. When I casually mention in a letter that I wish my lovely flowers could last longer than a few days, that is not an invitation to send me a potted plant! I would never be so forward as to casually request such a thing of you, my benefactor! And even if I did, you should not acquiesce such a wish- you will surely spoil me if you continue to shower me in flowers.

Though, incidentally, the Daffodils are quite stunning.

And, of course, thank you.

So, Archangel, I have much to share with you this bright December morn. It appears I have made a new friend. And one outside of The Garden, no less!

I believe I mentioned in my last letter that Bela was taking me to Traverse City over the weekend before Thanksgiving. Well, we went, along with Meg, and it was an excellent trip. The drive out was remarkably pleasant, given the unseasonably warm weather, and we arrived late on Friday with just enough time to order in food before turning in for the night. Money is, apparently, no object to Bela, but as this weekend was meant to initiate me into the concept of a “traditional American sleepover”, she reserved one large room with a single King bed, and we all piled in together. It was all quite cozy. And Meg even behaved herself throughout the course of this sleeping arrangement. Mostly.

We spent the day exploring Traverse City, which is a lovely town in its own right. But our day was interrupted just after noon by a call from Bela’s cousin, who was apparently also in the area, and offered to take us out to lunch.

Archangel, I have to confess that in the hour between the phone call and our arrival at the café I had formed a rather unflattering image in my head of Bela’s cousin. From the way she spoke to and of him, I had invented a man of questionable taste and intelligence who somehow managed to be both unsavory and Casanova himself. He was clearly going to be a mess of contradictions, and none of them particularly pleasant.

Well, silly me for trusting Bela’s estimation of her relations, because Dean Winchester proved to be anything but unpleasant.

The first thing that struck me was that he was remarkably unassuming, sitting in the corner of the café in a warn leather jacket and jeans, drumming his fingers on the table as if in time to a spirited silent song. Don’t get me wrong: he is quite a handsome man. But I suppose, given his connection to the Talbots, I was expecting an over-polished gentleman, the sort who exudes status and positively drips money wherever he goes. Needless to say, the relaxed man we met was nothing of the kind.

For one thing, he does not share Bela’s British dialectical tendencies. We learned over the course of the lunch that he grew up here in Michigan, though largely down state in recent years, and only became aware of Bela’s arm of the family tree several years ago. For all Bela’s griping about having to accept Dean’s invitation, the cousins proved to have a quietly amiable relationship. It’s clear they are largely incongruous people, but their banter was far more playful than antagonistic, a battle of wits almost Wildean in tone. Dean is clearly quite sharp, and though his focus is more scientific than literary, he kept up with our little group’s discourse like a professional.

I won’t spend this entire letter gushing about Dean Winchester, I promise. But over the course of the weekend, we spent much more time with him than originally planned, and I have to say that I enjoyed it immensely. It doesn’t hurt that he’s quite nice to look at, of course. But more, I found that he has a special way of engaging a person in conversation, of listening to them fully and wishing to connect, which I very much admire and would love to observe further. It sounds like I might have that particular wish granted, as he told us he will be up state visiting several times this year, and would love to meet up with us all again. (Yes, all of us: he even kept up with Meg’s rather scary energy, which is quite a feat on first meeting.) He also exchanged email addresses with me and expressed an interest in reading my work at some point, which was quite flattering. I haven’t the faintest idea if he would enjoy my dry humor in written form, but he seemed to tolerate it quite well in person, so I have hope.

In any case, we had a lovely weekend away, and I’m happy to report that my social horizons have officially extended beyond school.

Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re much more interested in my studies than in tales of adult slumber parties. Well, I assure you, writing is continuing to go quite well. I started to feel myself slowing down on generating new ideas after my illness last month, so I started going back over bits and pieces of concepts scrawled on notebook corners during class and bits of napkin in the middle of the night. It turned into a mesmerizing little puzzle, combining ideas and pairing characters with conflicts until I had built the foundations of three distinct stories. I’m not at all sure where any of them are going just yet, or if they will even amount to much at all, but it is fun to fit bits of thought into a sort of story cloud. Pamela has been especially engaged with this process, as she loves big radical ideas. “The more ridiculous the better,” she always says, “that’s where you start. Then carve it all down and see what statue lives inside.” She’s quite something when she gets in full flow about the creative process, and I’m hopeful giving her methods a try will push me outside even my own expectations.

Crowley, meanwhile, has declared this month a reckoning. He’s asked us all to bring in pieces we feel are finished, so that he can don his strictest editor hat and remind us that the work is never finished. Frankly, I expect it’s more to take us all down a notch so we don’t get complacent. But that can’t be a bad thing- the world is vast and wide and full of endless talent, and overconfidence seems to me a particularly dangerous temptress. In a sadistic way, I rather look forward to watching Crowley tear “The Society of Wayward Daughters” to editorial shreds. Should be a stimulating challenge.

Apart from the work, all seems to be well. I’m fully recovered from my illness (have you burned the infamous letter yet? I wasn’t joking about that part.) And excepting some slight misgivings about the Christmas break, I’m in excellent spirits. 

The trouble with this holiday is that everyone is going away. Well, everyone apart from Chuck, who lives here permanently. All the students are going home or to visit other friends, even Krissy this time. And the professors and staff are all off to visit with family, so Chuck and I will be left entirely alone on the Estate. Not that there’s anything wrong with Chuck- he is an excellent teacher, and I enjoy chatting with him about coursework and frivolities alike. But I fear we will run out of conversation topics by the end of the first meal, and that will make coexisting for two weeks without any other company rather awkward. But, given that my alternative option is to appear back at Angel Farm without Naomi’s invitation, I cannot complain. Alfie has written me that she seems to have warmed some toward the children since my departure, and I don’t want to risk her backtracking in surprise. Much better to send them my love from afar and write my way through the vacation.

And so, Archangel, I bid you farewell for now. I hope, wherever you plan to spend your holiday season, it is free of awkward silent meals at long empty tables. Or, at least, that the image of me dining just this way like Disney’s Belle will make you smile once or twice.

Best Wishes,

Cas Novak

~

December 7, 2017

From the Office of Mr. Michael Smith

Mr. Novak:

Should you still be in search of alternative lodging over this month’s holiday break, Mr. Smith would like to recommend an available place in East Jordan, Michigan. The proprietor of a popular pub in town has a room available for a tenant during the time in question, and she has been known to provide excellent accommodations for young artists in the past. She offers a small apartment above her restaurant for a very minimal fee, which Mr. Smith would consider included within the scope of your existing scholarship. Another rental car could easily be hired for you as well, should you need transportation to East Jordan.

If you would be interested in spending your vacation thus, you can contact Mrs. Ellen Harvelle by email at info@roadhousegrill.com. If you could, also please respond to this letter with your decision, whatever it might be, so that Mr. Smith can handle the appropriate arrangements.

Sincerely,

Ms. Celeste Middleton, personal secretary to Mr. Michael Smith

~

December 11, 2017

Dear Ms. Middleton/Mr. Smith/Archangel,

You are so unbelievably sweet to think of me in this way! I know how you detest thanks, but I cannot contain my gratitude at this offer. As you recommended, I have exchanged emails with Mrs. Harvelle, and she has agreed to let me stay in the available room in exchange for my help in the restaurant during my tenure. I honed my skill for washing dishes quite well in my time on Angel Farm, and I was quick to offer my services to this kind person who is willing to give me a place to stay in my time of need. I shall not require a car this time, as Meg has agreed to drop me off in East Jordan on her way down to Lansing and pick me up again upon her return, but I do appreciate your kind offer to handle the arrangements.

And, Archangel, since I see you have not heeded my warning about spoiling me with your generosity, I suppose there is no point in my reiterating the point now. You are more than I deserve, and I hope you know how deeply that is appreciated.

Wishing you (both, now that I know of Ms. Middleton’s presence) a lovely and happy holiday!

All the best,

Cas Novak

~

December 23, 2017

Happy Holidays Archangel!

I hope you’re having a lovely and restful holiday season so far. I certainly am, now that I’m set up here in East Jordan. I’ve been here for a little over a week, and have enjoyed it immensely.

I couldn’t quite tell from your note about the Roadhouse whether you actually knew the place or simply knew of the vacant apartment. So, in case you’re unfamiliar, allow me to fill you in on this new world I’m exploring.

The Roadhouse is a Bar-and-Grill-style establishment tucked away in a fairly quiet corner of East Jordan. The proprietor, one Ellen Harvelle, is an absolute joy, though she would hate that I refer to her as such. She is the sort of person who hides her thoughtful kindness behind a gruff, occasionally combative exterior; strong by necessity but with the very best of intentions. She seems to appreciate my blunt, mission-oriented nature, as well, and realized far more quickly than most that my focus does not come at the expense of feeling. It can put people off, you see, the seriousness with which I seem to take everything, my subtle facial expressions, my sarcastic responses. But Ellen clocked on to the truth of it all immediately, and seems to have taken it as reason to adopt me into her little family without further question. I’m quite flattered by her easy acceptance, truly.

This “family” I mention is quite miraculous, and strikes a fantastic contrast to the group I have integrated with at The Garden. Ellen’s daughter, the incomparable Joanna Beth Harvelle (or, rather, Jo— I understand the full title is only used when she is in “serious trouble”) works behind the Roadhouse’s bar with her mother. She is nearly two years my junior, a stunning young woman with long blonde hair and a knife sharp wit that puts even the nastiest customers in their place with ease. Legend has it she once made a 7 ft. Neo-Nazi cry by beating him in an arm wrestling tournament on his birthday. And the glee with which she relates that particular story is truly inspiring.

There are two other employees of the Roadhouse who I’m told are no less “family” for lack of a blood tie to the Harvelles. Benny LaFitte, a bear of a man with a charmingly heavy Cajun dialect, splits his time between the bar and the kitchen, recreating Ellen’s recipes with impressive ease and designing fresh specials to entertain the regular customers. He tells me that he found his way to Northern Michigan from his native New Orleans by chance, hitchhiking north after the tragic death of his one true love until he found a place that “felt right”. (Jo tells me that this is a fable he tells strangers, and that when he gets drunk next I’ll hear about how his ex cheated on him with her boss and had the nerve to keep their pet tortoise when she kicked Benny out. Apparently, the tortoise is/was named Herman. No one is certain of the ex-girlfriend’s name, though. He refuses to speak it aloud.)

Ash, the bar back/handy man/occasional fill-in-fry cook is a bit of a mystery. For one thing, he doesn’t seem to have a last name. I’m fairly certain he sleeps in the bar most nights—usually on the pool table—but I can’t tell if this is by choice or necessity. He’s the sort of enigma of a human one imagines must have sprung unto existence exactly as he is today, mullet in full bloom, encyclopedic knowledge of computers, physics, and all manner of conspiracy theories fully formed without need for schooling. I’ve tried to picture it with all the skill of my writer’s mind, but I simply cannot imagine a childhood past that could come together to form such a man. He is a marvel, and I tip my hat to him for finding the corner of the world where he can flourish, conventions be damned.

The Roadhouse’s clientele is largely comprised of locals. I’m told the occasional “Fudgie” (tourist from downstate, if you’re unfamiliar) will wander in now and again on their way to or from the various ski resorts and campgrounds, but they rarely seem to return with friends after their initial visit. Ellen is happy to report that her bar has been deemed “too eccentric” for inclusion in tourist blogs or travel books. “It’s a damn blessing,” she declared on my second evening here. “We don’t get mobbed by snooty rich folks in designer ski wear, and the locals at least have one last place to get a bite and a pint in peace.” This might not be what your average MBA would call a “strong business model”, but from what I can tell it’s just about perfect.

Given these truths about the clientele, there are also two regular customers who round out the Roadhouse Family. Bobby Singer and Rufus Turner can be seen at the bar just about any night of the week, wandering in for dinner there once they’ve closed up their junk yard/repair shop for the night. Both surly men in their fifties, (or thereabouts—I prefer not to assume too closely) they seem to delight in little more than trading sarcastic barbs with each other, ranting about whatever sport happens to be playing on the TV over the bar, and enjoying Ellen’s food at the end of a long day. They are delightful- charmingly without artifice, and yet never actually rude or hurtful. And on quiet nights, they’ve taken to teaching me about basic car maintenance and engine repair, which I find very generous. Bobby might call me an “idjit” rather more than the average professor would dare, but it is uttered, always, like a term of endearment—not a rebuke, but an invitation to learn. He has very sweetly (again, never tell him I called him “sweet”) offered to help me fix up one of his “junker” cars for my own personal use, and I’m very much hoping to take him up on that offer. It would be immensely useful to have my own vehicle once my program at The Garden ends, and the idea of recycling a discarded, unwanted machine for this purpose is one I find immensely appealing. Poetic? Perhaps. But also, highly practical.

Confession, Archangel: I’ve been burying the lede a bit here. I made a strange discovery this morning, but I wasn’t entirely sure the true wonder of it would be apparent without the appropriate context. So, now that I’ve introduced you to my new circle of acquaintances here in East Jordan, I’ll let you in on the strangest truth of all:

Even before I came here, we had a mutual friend in common.

I know—it sounds unlikely, doesn’t it? That I, who know so few people in the world, should somehow come to close a circle between two groups of them…it’s like something out of a screenplay. But here I sit, writing to you from a corner booth that I’m told was once the favored after school haunt of one Dean Winchester.

An unexpected turn, no? That I should come across yet another group of Michiganders who consider my new acquaintance Mr. Winchester to be a kind of family? Well, that appears to be exactly what has transpired, and to add to the irony, I’m learning even more about him here at the Roadhouse than I did when we were face to face.

I believe I shared a bit about Dean with you in my last letter. (Oh, who are we kidding? I’m fairly certain I gushed about him for several pages in my last letter.) Well, I’m about to do it again, so brace yourself, Archangel.

And, if you’re sick of hearing about this man already, then just pretend he’s fictional, and allow me to spin you a story. I can assure you: from what I’ve learned through my various new Roadhouse sources, it is QUITE a story.

Dean was born downstate, the first of two sons born to John and Mary Winchester. (And let me point out right now that neither Dean nor Bela mentioned any of these people when we all met last month. It seems there is a reason for that.) When the younger son, Sam, was only a few months old, their house caught fire. It burned to the ground, killing Mary, leaving the boys motherless and their father completely distraught.

John’s father, Henry Winchester, was apparently quite wealthy, coming from a branch of the same tree Bela calls home and then rising to be a well-respected man in his own right, and a professor at the University of Michigan. No one here seems to know much about what, precisely, happened next, but John and Henry are said to have fallen into a massive argument just after Mary’s funeral, and John ran off with his boys in tow, vowing never to speak to his father again.

As I understand it, the Winchesters drifted around for the next few years. Grief did not manifest kindly in John Winchester, and he struggled to put down new roots for very long. He would do odd jobs, but after a time the combination of restlessness and alcohol-induced misbehavior would ultimately drive him on to a new town. At least, that’s how Bobby and Rufus tell it. It’s so hard to ever know the inside of another’s life, but it’s clear these two were John’s friends once, even if their concern for his sons eventually drove a wedge between them all.

It sounds like John passed through East Jordan several times over the years, and his boys clearly made an impression on Ellen, Bobby, and Rufus. The third time John declared that they were going to move on after about three months in town, Ellen, apparently, snapped. Jo was listening from the next room when her mother unleashed on John Winchester, and she tells me the argument ended with a blunt threat to call child services if the boys were not given a stable home immediately. Ellen’s wrath was quite a sight to see, I’m told, and by the end of the week Sam and Dean were living with Bobby. John, for his part, took off, just as he had intended.

And thus, the Winchester boys came to spend much of their childhoods in East Jordan, Michigan. John would come and go, but with the Harvelle’s and their friends watching over them, both boys were able to lead at least a stable life, if not a “normal” one. Dean worked at the Roadhouse through high school, then got a full ride scholarship to study Mechanical Engineering at the University of Michigan, and Sam graduated valedictorian of his high school, with his eyes set on a law degree. He received a scholarship of his own, and went off to Stanford University to seek his fortunes.

And this, I gather, is where things started to go sideways. John was not pleased at how far away his youngest son had gone to earn his degree, and was not subtle about expressing this when Sam came home for Christmas his Freshman year. It doesn’t sound like John was ever particularly gentle with his children, (though, again, I have all this through the lens of people who love the boys like sons, so I cannot claim an unbiased perspective) and the ensuing fight was one for the ages. A desperate Dean defended a drunken John from a furious Sam at the end of his rope, and by the end of the night, Sam had fled with a promise never to return. Apparently, Dean’s defense of John had been too much for Sam to tolerate, in the end—as far as anyone here can tell the brothers still haven’t spoken to this day, nearly five years later. Sam did not attend the funeral when John succumbed to a heart attack a few years ago.

So. Like I said, it’s a hell of a story. And clearly still an open wound for Dean, seeing as even Bela didn’t mention Sam Winchester to any of us. She isn’t exactly known for her tact, so I suppose it’s possible she doesn’t know about Dean’s family beyond what Henry might have told her. But I’m certainly not going to bring it up with her unless I’ve ensured it isn’t secret information. I do hope you won’t tell either, Archangel. It’s not my tale to share, in truth, and I only open it to you with the understanding of anonymity for all involved. Please don’t prove me naïve for trusting you thus.

Heavens, Archangel, this letter is impressively lengthy already, isn’t it? Especially when one considers that I am not currently at school, and therefore have not been writing to you about classwork. But, then, I suppose this is to be expected when a writer is handed such a juicy tale. Perhaps it can’t be helped.

I do promise that I have been using my time off wisely, as well. In addition to the nuggets of idea and character sparks that come with exciting new acquaintances, I have been acquiring all kinds of new knowledge purely by helping in the bar. It’s amazing what even a short time working at a new vocation can teach, what possibilities such lessons can open up. I’m drowning in idea-scraps in the best possible way, and the bits of work I’ve done during the mornings, when the bar is quiet, have been immensely satisfying. I imagine my professors will be just as happy you found this place for me to spend the holidays as I am.

And with that, Archangel, I’m afraid I must leave you. It’s nearly dinner time, and I imagine Ellen needs this booth for actual paying customers. But I hope that wherever in the world you might be this December, you are safe and happy and healthy. I thank you today and every day, not just for your generosity, but for the tender way you have treated me, even in anonymity. Your silence is more verbose than the words of many I’ve encountered, and your simple willingness to listen? Well, that’s an invaluable currency in my book. Having you to write to this holiday feels more like having family than anything on Angel Farm ever did, and I cannot describe the joy that brings, however silly I might sound as I try.

Thank you, Archangel, and Happy New Year.

Castiel

~

Dec. 25, 2017

Archangel.

I have a bone to pick with you, sir. Again.

This is TOO MUCH.

You are paying for my graduate degree already.

(Not to mention the stipend, which is generous on its own and will set me on an excellent track after the program ends.)

But this?

Who sends a STRANGER (or, a relative stranger, at least) a brand-new smartphone for Christmas?

Who DOES that?

And who, pray tell, pays off said smartphone’s call and data plans ahead for a FULL YEAR?!

It’s not normal, I tell you.

And I simply cannot accept it, Archangel.

It’s too much, don’t you understand? What on Earth could I have done to deserve all this?

I am grateful, truly, for your thoughtfulness, but please accept the return of this extravagant gift for what it is; a realist’s attempt at humility. You have given me far more than enough already, and I cannot stand to extort from you further.

Happy New Year, Archangel. You are, as always, a true celestial gift.

Cas

~

January 3, 2018

Dear Archangel,

Well played, then.

I have to say, it was an excellent plan. You are, clearly, just as wily as I always dreamed. I really thought, for about three hours, that the package containing the over-the-top gift I attempted to send back to you had been deemed undeliverable. Indeed, that was written on the box.

But, as Jo also received an undeliverable package back later the same day, I can say without hesitation that the US Postal Service does not return a package by hand-writing “Return to Sender” on the box. There are stamps and stickers and bar codes involved. Not Sharpie messages and fancy messenger services.

So, clearly this was a clever ploy to try to get me to keep the phone. But don’t you see the spot you’ve put me in? I can never manage to deserve this gift.

When I started writing this note, I was all set to send the phone right back to you again. But I was interrupted only a sentence and a half ago. Jo popped into my booth because Dean was on the phone, and she handed the call off to me (just like that! With no warning!! I’ve met this man ONCE, and I’m not great with people at the best of times, but I tried to converse in a normal fashion as best I could). So, I talked with Dean, (and survived!) for a bit, and he asked for my phone number. When I told him about this smartphone debacle (a version of it, anyway—in my tale you were a wealthy relative I haven’t seen in a decade) he tried to talk me down. “Think of it as an investment,” he said when I explained my hesitation. “You know, in your career. When agents and publishers are beating down your door, they’re gonna need a way to reach you. And if this uncle or whatever wants to fund your communication for a while, you should let him! He’s like a patron of the arts or something, right?” (I might have said you were my uncle. My apologies for the presumption, but I was very nervous.)

I’ll admit, Archangel, I can’t tell if my decision is more based on his logic or on my desire to acquiesce an attractive man’s request for my phone number. But either way, I have now decided to keep the phone. You clearly want me to have it, and I clearly need a way to be reachable by email in a consistent manner once I graduate, and apparently everything is all very clear all of a sudden. (Or, perhaps interacting with Dean is making my head particularly fuzzy, but I’m okay with that as well, I think. He is QUITE handsome, after all. I cannot be blamed for being weakened by even his voice over a phone line.)

So, thank you, I guess, for your ABSURD generosity. Know that I fully intend to pay you back for this with my first book advance, and no amount of fake “Return to Sender” messages will deter me. I will get in my new (refurbished-by-Bobby) Continental and drive to your home, if I must. I will hide the money in a flower pot on your front porch. I will duct tape it to your front door. I will find a way, whatever it takes!

Ever yours, in fuzzy-headed gratitude,

Castiel

~

January 2018

Dear Archangel,

In the spirit of the new year, I’ve decided to take another stab at a diary-entry-style letter this month. I have no idea how this will go, honestly, but it seems like an intriguing enough experiment to be worth the risk. So, I hope you enjoy this month’s series of small ramblings in lieu of the usual extended ramble.

...

January 5 –

Archangel—in all the chaos over the smartphone, I realize that I never told you about Christmas at the Roadhouse! So, in thanks for the gift, I shall set that tale for you as if it were a fictional story. (Just keep in mind that I have written this for you, draftless, directly onto this page. It is by no means edited or otherwise tailored for public consumption. It is a fresh, raw memory, rendered specially for you. Please do not judge too harshly or worry that your money is being put to poor use…)

*

Never in my life have I had such a Christmas.

Never in my life have I had a Christmas,

perhaps—

A day of giving not for the self, but for the restless

A day of welcoming not the related, but the lost

A day where togetherness is the gift most tender.

Never have I been a part of a such group,

working-not-working for the needy and the sad,

camping in a space to make it a haven,

a glowing beacon just East of extravagant celebrations,

balm for the loneliest of holidays-for-one.

I was welcomed in to worship in this chapel pub,

where hymns of classic rock soar to the rafters in harmony

and offerings are passed in poker chips and IOUs,

every smile a prayer

every giggle a miracle.

No sermon has ever so fully described the god-like-good that lives here

in the middle of things

in the space between people

in growled words of deepest trust

in the silent solidarity of a gleaming glare.

A space, you see, can be a gift—

a place for slow-night-Scrabble lit by holly scented candles,

for off-beat holiday classics projected above the bar,

for peace-time war stories shared to a judgeless ear.

This gift is not for the gilded elite,

but for the golden few

who have known loneliness,

unmoored and testing,

and wish it on no other soul.

This is a Christmas that listens without reproach.

This is a Christmas that loves.

Never have I felt

so acutely

the lack

in my last-year-life.

But never

never

have I been less sorry

that it brought me here.

*

(Huh. That became some kind of free form poem. Cain will be thrilled to hear his classes are rubbing off on my work… Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my accidental Christmas poem!)

...

January 12 –

I suppose you’ll be curious how things are going with your extravagant Christmas gift? If that’s what you’re silently asking me from afar, then I will have to answer, “quite well, thank you”.

Now, I’m not some sort of cave person – I know how to work a computer. I am a child of the Internet Age, after all. I grew up working with word processors just as earnestly as I write by hand to you now, and I’ve become quite skilled in the art of internet research as writing has slowly drawn my focus. We did have things like computers and televisions at Angel Farm, even if Naomi wasn’t overly fond of the “idle behavior” they occasionally inspired in her charges. But through all the technological education of my formative years, I never interacted with a cellular phone of quite this breed. Why would I need to? I didn’t exactly attract bosom friends, especially as an odd young farm kid. Who could possibly need to get a hold of me? I went to school and I went home, both of which were reachable by landline. And if something happened to make me miss the school bus, I knew how to walk back to the farm from the town center, so I suppose Naomi never saw any reason to bother with the expense to get me a “for emergencies phone” like some of my contemporaries’ parents. She has never been one for supporting excesses, Naomi. Honestly, I doubt she would have had any inclination to buy me a phone even if I did have friends with which to communicate. It’s just not something she would deem necessary enough to warrant her attention.

I suppose I misspoke (miswrote?) just now – I had “interacted” with a smartphone before last month. Hannah has had one as long as I’ve known her, so I observed her using it when we were in classes or studying together. I never really handled the thing, though. Same goes for my classmates here at the Garden – I’ve observed their use of their own phones, even watched things on their screens, but I never really worked with them myself.

All that is a rather long-winded way of admitting that I was almost a complete novice when I first attempted to use this new device shortly after completing my last letter to you. It was just different enough from working on a laptop as to throw me for a moment before Jo and Ash took pity and started walking me through the basics.

That said, my technical mind does seem to have gotten the hang of things now. As soon as Becky learned I had a smartphone for the first time, her eyes positively lit up with a vaguely terrifying excitement. She’s promised to spend this evening introducing me to some sort of crowd-sourced online fiction archive that she thinks will change my life. I don’t know about that, but I suppose I’ll humor her. Can’t hurt, right?

Beyond that, I’ve set up email on the phone and exchanged some electronic correspondences with Hannah, and even Dean, though I’ll admit that email isn’t really my most comfortable medium, generally speaking. Like texting, it seems to exist in the void between my best modes of communication: it’s not quite as fast and fluid as real conversation, but not quite slow enough for deliberate, considered writing.

Meg and Bela assure me I’ll get the hang of it soon enough. But, then, Meg and Bela have already taken to texting me summons to their various rooms at all hours of the day and night rather than just walking ten steps down the hall to knock on my door. So, perhaps their level of comfort shouldn’t be my goal.

...

January 16 –

We’re really back into the swing of things now, Archangel. After about two weeks back from the holiday break, it’s becoming clear that our second semester is going to have a slightly different “vibe” in comparison to the first. Things in the autumn were fairly divided, different professors asking us to bring in work in to be examined through their various areas of expertise, working on it with us one at a time, even in group sessions.

But now that we’ve developed a deep degree of comfort with each other, things aren’t quite so firmly defined. We’re being encouraged to collaborate a lot more, both in the writing and in the critiquing. Most of our group sessions are set up more like workshops than classes now, with the professors facilitating and participating, but not lecturing or taking over. I quite like it, so far. Since our areas of focus and our styles vary so widely, it seems to open us all up to have such a mixture of ideas expressed. Any piece brought to class gets read into the ears of a poet, a romance writer, a thriller specialist, and a bunch of others all at the same time, and so can benefit from all the perspectives, rather than one line of inquiry. What better way could there be to avoid becoming mired in cliché than to stretch outside the box, stylistically? I did a fair amount of work on a couple new ideas during my time in East Jordan, and so far, I’ve been immensely enjoying the reactions of my various classmates and teachers to those pieces. I can’t wait to see in what directions their impressions and ideas ultimately take me.

It sounds like these workshop-type sessions are going to be more the norm throughout the rest of the program, so I’ll be sure to keep you posted on the progress of things. We did learn a bit more about our elusive “final project” this week, as well. Before the break Chuck was adamant that we put it out of our minds for the time being.

“This isn’t some kind of thesis,” he assured us over and over all autumn. “It’s just something to focus your final semester. We don’t expect a magical polished masterpiece based on prescribed rules and illogical timelines! You’re here to learn and grow!” Chuck is the sort of anxiety-sufferer who loves to reassure others that they don’t need to worry, even though they likely still will. It’s oddly comforting.

So, here’s what we know as of today: there is a “final project”, but it’s not to be graded as a complete work. A guest professor will visit next month to meet us, then she will return at the start of the Spring/Summer semester to give us each our project parameters. Apparently, this professor, one Dr. Jody Mills, will read a bunch of our work and craft instructions, one by one, specifically designing the parameters of the projects to push each of us, personally, in an area where we could use the nudge. I’m very intrigued, to tell you the truth. It’s always daunting to have someone survey your work (both finished and unfinished) and pass a judgement, however well intentioned. But somehow this setup isn’t scaring me as much as it might have before starting at the Garden. The goal is to take risks, try things, push boundaries, and any judgement comes not with condemnations but with opportunities. I can’t wait to see what Professor Mills crafts for me. Should make for a fascinating summer!

...

January 22—

Archangel, I’ve been kidnapped!

(Don’t worry: it was just for the weekend.)

I was stolen from my room late Friday afternoon after classes, smuggled down to a car with two others, and driven off toward a two-day captivity in a luxurious hotel in Petoskey.

The kidnapper, my hall-mate Meg Masters, has yet to apologize to any of us for this crime. Though, she did feed us quite well, which I suppose can be taken into consideration as we contemplate her sentence.

I learned several things about Meg Masters during this ever-so-strenuous ordeal. (And by “ordeal”, of course, I mean “fun and restful vacation”.)

  * She may talk a big game, but when in her own car she drives at the speed limit with almost religious consistency. (The claim is that another ticket on her permanent record might result in imprisonment, but I expect it’s more likely she has a secret cautious streak.)
  * She might have lost her parents some time ago (something we learned rather unexpectedly during a group class last Thursday), but she has built a clan of loyal friends back in Lansing whom she considers “far better than family”.
  * She rather ominously decided during the break that Bela, Krissy, and I are going to become part of this family “whether we like it or not”.
  * She has far more money at her disposal than any of us anticipated, and is unexpectedly willing to spend it on her friends as long as no one attempt to express their thanks in any manner she deems “mushy”.
  * Truly, she detests gratitude of all kinds. If you fight her on that point, she will come at you with whatever non-lethal blunt instrument is at hand.
  * She might act tough and overtly sexual and vaguely “goth”, but when Meg Masters was eight years old, she had a “cow phase”.



This last delicious morsel of information was bestowed upon Bela, Krissy, and myself by Meg’s childhood friend, Balthazar, who had driven up to Petoskey to make our induction into “The Family” official. Apparently before Meg began to develop her impressive brand of scary sarcasm, she had a deep love of everything cow print, and for some months would wear nothing else. Meg claims to have burned all the evidence, but I got the distinct impression that Balthazar might have squirreled at least one photo away. I do so hope I’m right. I know you have not met Meg, Archangel, but she is just the sort of leather-clad tour de force who would be mortified for ever having done something so charmingly “silly”, even in childhood. This sort of photo is ultimate in effectively harmless blackmail. (For the record, Balthazar was briefly declared “disowned from ‘The Family’” for having divulged the fact of the Cow Phase, but his status was restored when he ordered in champagne and strawberries for us all to enjoy.)

In case you couldn’t already tell, Balthazar is, at least in my opinion, really something else. I’ll have to admit to being quite infatuated with him, actually, even after only two days. He is a stunning man, tan and blonde, tall and lean and graceful with a smooth demeanor and an unprovoked British accent. Like Meg, he speaks of no family beyond his friends, as though content to claim that he appeared from the ether as a 19-year-old in an East Lansing dive bar 5 years ago when he met Meg. He is a visual artist, although I gather he also has a variety of jobs that fund his lifestyle, including tending bar and dealing Black Jack in the Detroit casinos. I also gather that he is bisexual and brazen enough to shamelessly flirt with new acquaintances over champagne and strawberries.

All in all, it was an excellent weekend. I had the pleasure of enjoying a variety of entertaining stories and stimulating conversation with three good friends and a handsome man who paid me far more attention than I’m used to. And, Archangel, I rather think I kept up with him! I managed to not incessantly splutter or blush or make an ass of myself, and I’m quite proud of myself. Not only am I looking forward to penning characters the beautiful Balthazar has already begun to inspire, I’m fairly certain I can look forward to hearing from the man himself sometime soon. Look at me go, Archangel! Using exclamation points without irony! There might be hope for me yet as a standard citizen of the world.

Whoever said kidnapping could never be fun must never have been to Petoskey.

...

January 28 –

Oh, Archangel.

Where do I even begin?

What a night I’ve just experienced.

I suppose I ought to begin with the reminder that I am, at heart, a skeptic. Perhaps not quite a pessimist, but certainly on the realist’s side of the fence when it comes to human nature. I approach the world eager to be proven wrong, but I’ve seen enough in my strange little life to know how power can corrupt, how a connection (once seen as a given) can go amiss, how communication can fail entirely, even within a small community.

So, monumental conversations, epiphanistic evenings, deep communal barings of the soul—well, let’s just say I’ve always considered them more optimistic plot devices than legitimate, real world possibilities.

Well, I’ve just been up all night experiencing one such impossible meeting of hearts, and I’ve never been happier to declare my previous world view incorrect.

(Please forgive my lack of polish as I try to explain? We truly were up all night, and I could not wait to put this down, so I am tragically sleep deprived. I am not certain, for example, that “epiphanistic” is a legitimate English word. But within this warm bubble of dawn where people can learn from each other and make the world grow whole, I cannot be bothered to care about anything as trivial as proper English.)

Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating slightly in the glow of this gorgeous sunrise. My classmates and I didn’t solve world hunger or cure Cancer last night. But it felt so very important, nonetheless. At least to me. You understand: I have never had a true community of my own before. Not in this sense, at least, where we are all equal, if varied, and can share and comfort without fear of retribution. My siblings were my charges, and my few early friends were necessarily distant after class hours, so a night of earnest, soul-baring connection would never have been in the cards. It was vastly out of the realm of possibility for me.

But last night, a door opened to that realm here in the student wing lounge of The Garden’s estate, and it felt, to me, like magic.

It started with Krissy and I. Krissy specializes in young adult fiction—I don’t know if I’ve told you that before—and she has been working on a piece of late that might benefit from some elements of a strong family dynamic among the leading characters. As in, an actual blood-tied family unit with all its highs and lows, rather than something found or built. She and I were both working in the lounge/living room, so I offered to help her at least talk through her frustration.

I honestly can’t remember what I’ve told you about Krissy’s situation, so I suppose I should clarify. Like me, Krissy is an orphan, but she didn’t come to be in that lonely club until she was 13. At that point, she was plunged into the Foster System in a more transient way than my own experience afforded, moving from place to place until she managed to graduate high school at 16, have herself emancipated from the system, and go off to college on scholarship. She’s what Meg refers to as a “subtle but exquisite badass”.

So, Krissy began to lay out the trouble she’s been having in her current story of focus: she feels grossly unqualified to write a standard family dynamic, having never really lived it. Her mother died before she can remember, and from then until age 13 her father was away on the road driving his truck much of the time. And after that… well, if you know anything about the Foster system, you know that not all homes are created equal. Krissy has some horror stories that, in my opinion, fully explain her drive to get to college so young. In any case, nothing in her history involves any kind of white picket fence or homemade pie made by a cheery, rested parent. The prospect of exploring a reasonably well-adjusted basic family unit was tying her in knots.

As you can imagine, the only thing she achieved in explaining all this to me was identification of the root problem. I didn’t have any answers for her, really. My upbringing might have been steady in a way Krissy’s wasn’t, but it certainly had some deliberate deviations from the average. There was a fence, but it was, by no means, white or picket-shaped. Naomi’s was a single adult home, full of variously acquired children and farmhands, woefully short on displays of affection, where the only pies were baked for the church and were “not for greedy little children, understood?” It was neither normal nor actively abusive, far from fun, but ultimately survivable. It simply was, and it affords me very little context for the average home environment outside of a rather boring Cinderella remake (sans evil siblings and handsome prince).

So, there Krissy and I sat, in front of a crackling fire, contemplating the enormous void in our childhood experience, when our savior arrived! His name, dear Archangel, was Garth Fitzgerald IV.

At this point, it was nearly midnight, but we suddenly had a human in our midst who could fill in some blanks for us. He has two whole parents! He grew up in a city! He has siblings who were added to his family by virtue of his mother giving birth! What a novelty! After over an hour of baffled conversation, we had someone to interrogate, and I don’t think any force in the world could have stopped us.

The thing is, I found myself just as desperate for context as Krissy, once the problem was out there in the open, staring me in the face. Whether I ever choose to write about a traditional, standard family or not isn’t really relevant, I guess. What is important is to understand both sides of the coin – every possible angle, as Crowley would put it – in order to truly know what my own work means in the context of the world. After all, how can I open myself up to all possible stories if I never stop to understand how others experience things?

So, we attacked Garth with questions about his relationships with the various members of his family until he got visibly flustered and called in reinforcements (Kevin). Within fifteen minutes, a text had gone around the student wing, and all of our classmates had joined in the fun.

I’m not sure I’m doing this story justice, Archangel. But please believe me when I tell you that what transpired from that point was, somehow, utterly enchanting. We’ve come to trust each other quite intensely with our work over the past months, the kind of trust that builds from respect and a mutual set of goals. But this was something more intense, even, than our usual discussions. This—seven of us laid out on the floor in the flickering firelight diving down in to the human experience as we’ve seen it play out— it was like a suspension. A floating moment, unique in the squall of existence.

We did not sleep at all (as you can probably tell from my decadent metaphors). We laid aside most of our usual teasing and sarcasm in favor of naked fascination and an open forum. Krissy and I shared with the group at large our experiences, and some shared with us by our various temporary siblings, catching them up on the highs and lows of life as a foster. They, in turn, began to open up about themselves (and I hope I can count on your discretion as I weave this narrative).

Kevin painted us a picture of the anxieties of a suburban adolescence, mired in the pressures of his race and his high-achieving family. Becky opened up about the bullying she had endured growing up, a shy and awkward tween with emotionally closed off parents. Bela enlightened us about some of the finer horrors and peculiarities of a British boarding school education, of a lavish life in the delicate world of diplomacy, of the fine but distinct line between parental approval and parental support. Garth told us about his transgender brother, currently in the midst of hormone therapy, and some of the trials their family has encountered as “one of the Fitzgerald girls” came to find himself. And Meg…well. It turns out she didn’t kill her parents, as we somewhat jokingly suspected. But I might not have blamed her if she had done.

This, all of it, was quiet and raw and altogether beautiful.

Through it all, every one of us listened as though it were gospel. We were all riveted, determined to soak in the tales, the tones of voice, the details remembered and the ones freshly unforgotten. We took notes, Archangel! Not of the specifics of our comrades’ experiences, but of the unique mundanities that popped out around the edges, things foreign to some while barely even thought of among others. Four H and Forensics. Farm work and Family Trips. Things taken for granted, but utterly new outside the bubble of one life. Archangel, we learned so much.

By dawn, we were beginning to nod off and agreed that we should call it a night. Or, perhaps, a day. A morning. We didn’t really get into the semantics, honestly. There were tears to wipe away and hugs to he had and piles of scribbled notes to gather together. There were ideas taking root that can build only in dreams. And, in my case, there was a letter to finish.

From here, Archangel, the sun bursting over the frozen lake through my window is an almost absurdly apt metaphor. I feel more connected to the world at large in this moment, from a closed estate in the middle of the woods, than I ever could have imagined. The varied world is not so much a mystery when there is even this tiny bit of context. Or, perhaps more accurately, when there are people at hand who can be trusted to fill in your gaps. People who don’t call your gaps failings. People who will acknowledge gaps of their own even while they help yours spill over with something new and stunning.

Archangel, I only hope this entry makes some modicum of sense. I expect the depth to which I feel as though I know you is truly laughable from your perspective, but I could not bring myself to sleep without first putting this tale down for your consumption. I want you to know just how deeply you have touched me by giving me the opportunity to come here. It isn’t just about the schooling, this education. It is something spectacular and wondrous, and I hope you can appreciate my awe as I see what a bond can bring forth. You are the closest thing I feel I have to a family, as my foster siblings move on with their lives and I embrace the finality of my cut ties with Naomi. You are the only person pulling for me outside this estate who I imagine can appreciate the wonder of my experience here. I do not know if you, personally, write or if you simply enjoy reading enough to fund an author-focused scholarship, but either way, I send you this experience because I feel, deep in my heart, that you are a kindred spirit. I hope you will not be offended by my presumption in this case. Having you there, even muted at the other end of this correspondence, brings me more joy than I ever expected.

I should sleep. I’ve surpassed rambling and have achieved a level of mushiness that would invite Meg’s deepest ire. So, good night/morning/day to you for now, Archangel. I wish you many nights like the one I’ve just had, full of friends, stories, and unbounded love.

...

January 29 –

Heavens, Archangel! I’m going to need extra postage to send you this tome of a letter! I should sign off before I cause injury to a mail carrier with yet more paper…

Until February, Archangel, Adieu.

With Renewed Excitement,

Castiel

~

February 16, 2018

Good Evening Archangel,

Or, I suppose it isn’t necessarily evening for you as you read…but it is currently evening here, for me, as I write. So, consider my greeting variable to your circumstances as the reader, I suppose, and I shall do the same. It seems a bit excessive to expect you to walk away and return to read the letter in the evening, after all.

Well, it has been quite an eventful few weeks in our little northern enclave, Archangel! In addition to our ever-informative class time sessions, our educations saw the beginnings of a new expansion this week when a visitor alighted upon the Estate!

(Heavens, I’m turning into an Austen novel knockoff again. Let’s put a stop to that before you run screaming in horror, eh?)

I believe I mentioned in my last letter that the creator of our final project would be an outsider, a new professor who would come to the Garden, meet us all, and then return at the end of the semester with hand-crafted project guidelines in hand. And, in case I didn’t explain that before, (the downside of hand written letters being that I cannot check…) at least I have done so now.

Dr. Jody Mills, the visitor in question who has just spent the week here at Chuck’s Estate, is, I can happily report, a true delight. She lives downstate with her wife and daughter, and is a no-nonsense woman with the pixie cut of a rock star and the dry wit of a modern-day Wilde character. By the end of her first evening in our midst, my feelings about the elusive final project had shifted from vague apprehension to palpable excitement. It’s amazing what an affinity between two personalities can do for one’s view of the world, Archangel. I won’t know the parameters of my project for several months, but given this last week, I am certain that it will both stimulate something wonderful in my writing and prove immensely fun to work on. That is the kind of certainty Jody Mills inspires.

For this first visit, Chuck set us up to each meet with Jody one-on-one several times. I’ve never engaged in any sort of counselling or psychotherapy, but the setup of these sessions felt almost as I imagine the beginning of a therapist/patient relationship might. We met, first, to simply get acquainted- chat about our lives and backgrounds, etc., and generally get used to each other’s company. For that first meeting, we were asked to bring along some finished samples—the sort of things we might submit as part of a portfolio. So, when the second session rolled around, Jody had read some of our work, and we were able to discuss our actual writing with her—inspirations and motivations and everything surrounding our working mindsets. Then, for the third and final formal session, she had read some early drafts of work we felt was “unfinished”: full drafts, snippets of works in progress, even entirely discarded ideas. This session was geared toward where we are and where we wish to go, discussions of what we feel are our strengths and our weaknesses, things we wish we could overcome or deeply want to try. It was all, in my opinion, fascinating. So much more open and personal than the “you-should-you-shouldn’t” feeling of most formal writing education. And with such a thoughtful and sharp interrogator as Jody, I found myself discovering my own desires as an artist even as I shared them, her questions aligning my most fleeting thoughts into something approaching epiphany more than once.

I won’t go into the details here, Archangel—they’re more useful as ephemeral concepts in the air around my writing desk than as indicators of my academic progress. But I can assure you that even the beginnings of this process are proving valuable points in my education.

I will, however, tell you that of the finished pieces I shared, Jody’s declared favorite was the same that inspired your sponsorship of my place here. So, clearly you are in good company.

In any case, my meetings with Jody went quite well, and I cannot wait to see what she brings for me upon her return to The Garden at the end of May. And in the meantime, I’ll be interested to see how the personal revelations she inspired manifest in the work I undertake this winter. Self-reflection can be a useful tool, after all.

What else? Well, I finished and polished up a new piece recently, a comedic short story reimagining of a biblical scene, of all things. It’s that moment early in the Christmas story where the Angel Gabriel comes to tell Mary she’s going to mother the son of God. Except, in this telling, Gabriel is a complete brat—an overly casual, vaguely bored jackass, making snotty jokes and slightly lewd references while he sucks on a lollipop and completely upends poor teenage Mary’s entire world. There’s something deeply disturbing about Mary, who I’ve always maintained got the raw end of the whole “human inducted into the divine” deal, being callously introduced to her role by a male-presenting being who thinks it’s all simply hilarious. Plus, I’ve always enjoyed the idea of the Christian angels having extreme personalities. Especially if those personalities lean perilously close to “asshole”. In all honesty, it’s the sort of day dream I used to have during childhood Sundays while Naomi and I sat through a third straight hour of Bible study in the chapel, (a game of High-Stakes Devout Chicken she liked to play with the other church ladies). The way I see it, power tends to corrupt humans with such regularity, so can these angels REALLY be all that different? Doubtful. There’s got to be a bad egg or two. Or, at least, a dork among their ranks somewhere. And the whole angelic order just reeks of Patriarchal Nonsense. Hence sassy dick Gabriel.

Chuck thinks I should keep the character around, see if maybe he could inspire a small series of stories. We’ll see how that goes. I could certainly see this Gabriel causing fireworks if he were to interact with more straight-laced angels, you know? Perhaps even Lucifer? We’ll see.

At the recommendation of my professors, I did submit some stories (including Gabriel’s) to a few publications earlier this month. I’ve got a while left in the program here, of course, but if nothing else perhaps I can get some early idea of how my writing might be received out in the world. And, if I’m supremely lucky, perhaps I could get something on the way to publication before I finish here. My hopes aren’t especially high, but I suppose one never knows.

Apart from that, things have been progressing largely as usual. Chuck is dramatic, Cain is intense, Crowley is aggressive, and Pam is tartly tolerant of them all. And with their combined guidance, we continue to push ourselves beyond our comfortable territory as much as we can. Interestingly, Pam’s group sessions have turned into something of a Writer’s Book Club of late, with all of us (Pam included) bringing in snippets and recommendations of books/stories that have inspired us—the more obscure the better. Especially given the wide variety of genre preferences among this group of students, that makes for a varied and exciting new reading list, which I am enjoying immensely thus far.

Those are the highlights for the moment, Archangel! Our “Spring” Break is coming up—always an entertaining misnomer in the Michigan education system given the inevitable snowfall during the week in question. Bela has invited us to join her at some sort of ski chalet her family seems to have rented for the month. She calls it a “cabin”. But, knowing her family, I have to imagine it holds about as much resemblance to Abraham Lincoln’s childhood home as the Taj Mahal. However luxurious it might be, I have no intention of declining the offer. Though, if she attempts to get me on a ski hill, (I’m told the Michigan offerings are distinctly “hills” rather than “mountains”) I might regret my decision to accompany her. I don’t care how “dinky and harmless” these ski hills supposedly are—coordination is not my best virtue even on solid, flat, ice-free ground. Pray for my poor fragile body, Archangel.

Yours in mild apprehension,

Castiel

~

March 12, 2018

Ahoy Archangel,

Greetings from the grey slushy north! It is March, and I have just arrived back from a lovely, somewhat productive but exceptionally rejuvenating “spring” break in Boyne Falls.

I’m sure you’re at least marginally curious about my vacation, so let’s get that out of the way first, shall we?

My assumption was correct—if the accommodations Bela secured for us are to be called a “cabin”, then perhaps my understanding of the term is out of date. The building did seem to be paneled in logs on the outside, but it was made up of two stories, all heated, and comfortably slept at least 5 adults with plenty of room left for relaxation and recreation. There is also a private hot tub on the back porch, which I can confirm also fits 5 adults as long as everyone involved is willing to get a little cozy.

I drove out with Meg and Bela last Saturday through a rather unpleasant storm (you know—the sort where it goes grey as night in mid-day and somehow snows sideways…), and we settled into the massive cabin-oid rental structure immediately. It was already stocked with food and whatnot, as Bela’s parents had only left the day before, so we hunkered down for about 36 hours of movies, munchies, and Moscato. We didn’t get much work done, but…well…everyone needs a break now and again, right?

By Monday, the weather had relaxed some, and Meg and I somehow let Bela talk us into cross country skiing. I did not fall over (much) or break any bones, but I felt like a rather unpleasant variety of Jello by the time I had flopped out on the couch back at home base. Clearly, the relative lack of physical activity in my life now that farm work is out of the picture has begun to render me somewhat out of shape. I shall have to keep that void in mind when I build my post-graduate life, should I ever wish to participate in such activities in the future.

Anyway, there I was, sore in previously undiscovered muscle centers of my own body, attempting to melt into the world’s only comfortable leather couch, being plied with wine by a deeply unapologetic Meg Masters, when Dean texted me.

Now, Archangel, you must be aware by now of my embarrassingly obvious crush on Dean Winchester. And, as I believe I have mentioned to you before, I am not yet truly comfortable with casual electronic communications such as texting. And at that moment I WAS in physical pain, likely dehydrated from a day of sweating through a heavy winter coat, and teetering on the edge between tipsy and drunk. Also, Meg and Bela are terrible influences who seem able to talk me into anything…

Archangel, we (or, well, “I” with their cackling voices in my ear) invited Dean up for the week.

And somehow, he accepted.

Early Wednesday afternoon, one Dean Winchester arrived in Boyne Falls, along with his best friend Charlie Bradbury. Contrary to what you might assume based on that name, Charlie is a small, red-haired firecracker of the female persuasion who simultaneously works as a techie at the same company as Dean, and runs the Internet like a hacker Robin Hood. She is also a queen at some sort of Medieval roll play activity that sounds like adult dress up. Apparently, this activity occasionally involves Dean wearing tights, which is an image I might never get out of my head. (No complaints! Though, that can be a challenging dichotomy when the object of such images is someone you are trying to be friends with.)

Anyway, this is how we learned that the hot tub could fit five, clearly. Charlie got along swimmingly with both Bela and Meg. And by that, I mean that I’m fairly certain they were all shamelessly flirting with each other the whole week. Honestly, everyone got along. Charlie seems like the sort who “collects people” on first meeting if she likes them, and she put me at ease far faster than anyone else I’ve ever met. And, well, I got more comfortable with Dean as the week went on, as well. Collectively, we watched quite a few movies, played some entirely ridiculous games of Apples to Apples and Boggle, and even went bowling one night while it poured down rain.

On Friday, the girls tried their hardest to get us to go downhill skiing, but Dean and I both ultimately declined. He is apparently quite uncomfortable with heights, and after the cross-country debacle of earlier in the week I did not have confidence my body would make it down a hill in one complete piece. The result was a day alone with Dean, and it went remarkably well, despite my initial nerves.

The thing is, Dean Winchester is a hell of a lot more complex than the persona he gives off. I had an inkling of this from our first meeting in November, honestly. He drives an absurd (though, admittedly, beautiful) muscle car, pitches his voice deliberately low like some sort of Eastwood cowboy, and dresses like a Carhartt ad. But if you watch him when he’s listening to someone else explain something, there’s a spark in his eye that belies real empathy. Behind the masculine posture is a true giver, the sort of man braced to leap in front of danger to protect anyone he calls a friend. He’s a fascinating study in contradictions.

Anyway, we spent the day alone together. We went on a little bit of a winter hike to take in the scenery, but mostly we talked. I told him a bit about my foster siblings over the years and he told me a bit about his early life on the road and highlights from his adolescence in East Jordan. He even told me about his brother Sam, who has still not reopened contact since the blow out fight with their father some years ago. Dean, self-deprecating to (in this case) a fault, has convinced himself that Sam was right to call Dean’s actions unforgivable, and that Dean trying to reconnect would only “drag the kid down”. I (very gently) told him that was bullshit, as I see it—I, a neutral observer with no apparent stake in the outcome. I positioned myself as a writer, and posited the theory that Sam is actually sitting in California telling himself roughly the same thing: that Dean was right to defend their lost and broken father from the worst of Sam’s attacks, and that Dean is clearly “better off” without ungrateful Sam and his poor attitude. I think that got through to him some. Well, I hope. From what I can tell, he raised Sam through much of their joint early childhood, and to see him so convinced that Sam couldn’t possibly care about him anymore is actively painful for me to see. Dean is a wonderful, thoughtful man, and if Sam really can’t see that, he doesn’t deserve such a brother. Perhaps my lack of true family is giving me a bias, but I truly believe this to be true, and I hope I adequately conveyed that belief to Dean. He deserves to be freed from this spiral of guilt.

We did manage to discuss things of the less intense variety, as well. Behind that impish smirk Dean is unexpectedly modest, but I was able to wheedle out of him enough about his education to learn just how much English and Comparative Literature he managed to fit in around his Mechanical Engineering degree, and we spent a good long while discussing favorite Vonnegut concepts and the relative merits of different dystopian Sci-Fi visions. He talked so openly about queerness during that particular discussion that I began to reconsider my assumption of his heterosexuality, to be frank. But that might be wishful thinking on my part. He is clearly a fierce ally and friend to Charlie, who first announced herself on arrival as “Charlie Bradbury, certified lesbian and Queen of Moons” (while doing the Vulcan Salute, of course). It’s entirely possible that his queer-positive vocabulary is simply a byproduct of Charlie’s gregarious influence and his own deep empathetic streak. But, either way, it relaxed that tiny part of myself that sees broad shoulders clad in flannel and immediately braces for impact. If and when I do come out to Dean, I’m fairly certain I’ll be met with acceptance, if not active encouragement.

Good heavens, I’m rambling about Dean again, and that is NOT why you requested these letters. I will leave you with this last note on the topic: we had an excellent week off, and I feel rich in friends as I return, rested and rejuvenated, to classes.

Right! Classes! Much of this has been, at least to an outsider’s eye, more of the same. We’ve been workshopping everyone’s work and sharing reading material between ourselves, everything I’ve mentioned before. It’s the specifics that have been particularly exciting, I suppose—seeing classmates have breakthroughs on problem pieces, or even having small breakdowns about deeply held issues. Several class sessions have devolved into therapy-session-like discussions. Especially with Pam at the helm, who possesses a sincere, measured tone of thoughtful questioning that any good counsellor should envy.

I suppose what I’ve found most fascinating about all this is how tightly one’s emotional turmoil can tie in with one’s writing. Perhaps that seems obvious, and on some level, I’ve been aware of it for ages. If we write about what we know, then what we don’t know will also appear in the margins— our fears in the voids between words, our opinions in the arcs and turns that a story takes as it progresses. The choices a character makes must reflect something upon the heart of the author, even if there is no active correlation between them at all. Even if the something that is reflected is that the author abhors that character’s choices.

I fear the way I’m explaining this is misleading. I don’t mean to imply any sort of black-and-white link between an author and the plot of their stories. It’s something else; a deeply ingrained hint of something ethereal that can both explain and complicate, an unintended discussion between the pen and the subconscious as the words flow onto the page.

Let me try for an example. Meg, who you’ve heard a lot about by now, has what you might call an “edgy” writing style. She is drawn to dark themes, macabre images, broken people and those who break them, the margins and the depths of a dark, ugly world. She writes murder and mayhem far more often than mild-mannered matrimony, and it seems to work for her. Her work is most likely to be compared to Joyce Carol Oates’ dark, brooding tales, and that stylistic theme has gotten her work quite a bit of attention. But, of course, we are all here to push ourselves, to extend our work beyond where we began, to find new avenues and traverse them without fear. To find the voids, and seek new ways to fill them in with fresh growth.

Meg’s stories seldom end well. They rarely paint redemption in a kind or desirable light. They speak of a writer who isn’t sure the line between good and evil would reflect well on her own soul. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that—any of it. Stories don’t need to be happy and sugary any more than they need to be a certain length or style. But, our professors would ask, is this tiny seedling of self-doubt, even self-loathing, holding Meg back? If she can see it and learn from it, will new avenues open to her? Could something unique bloom on the page if she let herself be a bit vulnerable?

We’re all looking at our work though this sort of lens at the moment: what is there, what is not, and what could happen if we tried something utterly terrifying? It’s heavy stuff, honestly. At least right now, while it’s happening. A bit like breaking down an okay-looking building to build the home of your dreams, I suppose— you have to be willing to give up on “fine” to create even the foundation of “wonderful”, and with something as personal as one’s art on the line, it can be a paralyzing prospect. But it’s what our professors have all done, and the fruits of that work, of truly knowing themselves, shine through clearly in their bodies of work. I’m ready to take that leap, newly freed to the world as I am, and I hope you will be proud of the results, whatever they might be. You have, after all, made them possible.

I will leave you with this, Archangel: there is a lot I’m working at, even sometimes struggling through— not least of which is a homogeneity of life experiences and a singular, isolated existence in a wide and complex world. But, in the end, I don’t think I could have found a better place on Earth to work through the nuances of these deep questions in my heart. In giving me the ability to come here, you have not only opened my career to a new level of possibility, you have given me a tribe and a kind of safety net in which to break apart. Perhaps that seems like an exaggeration to one with decades of worldly experience, such as yourself. But to me, it is the greatest gift imaginable.

So, have yet another “illegal” Thank You.

Yours in Messy Gratitude,

Castiel

~

April 19, 2018

Archangel!

I have two words for you:

Ghost Dragon.

Confused? Well, so was I.

A week or so ago I awoke to find these words scribbled on the notepad next to my bed, the apparent mid-night scrawl of a man with a Very Important Idea.

It must have been one hell of a dream. But I have absolutely no recollection of what this pair of words was meant to mean.

My initial reaction was to toss the note and move on with my life— it made little sense, and the idea, whatever it might have been, was gone. But our group session with Crowley that afternoon included a wholly unexpected rant from the man about making something from nothing, about having faith in your skill to build from anything if the need is there.

It was a bit jarring, actually. Crowley is generally a cynical and sarcastic being, the sort to avoid even a hint of “wishy washy, saccharine, new age bull shit” with every atom of his being. So, to hear him effectively tell us to trust ourselves and try new things (even in the shouting call of an angry British drill sergeant) was rather stunning. I never expected to call one of Crowley’s lectures “inspirational”, but this one came remarkably close.

Still a bit dazed, I wandered up to my room as usual after class, only to find it there on my bed side table, scrawled on a fuchsia Post-It.

Ghost Dragon.

It felt like a sign. This phrase meant nothing! I must make it something! The spirit of a deceased motivational speaker had just possessed the body of my surliest professor to tell me so!

Well, Archangel, I made a bunch of somethings. It was a strange few days, a frenzy of ideas and visions and wild scribbles. Perhaps I, too, was possessed by the motivational speaker or one of her kin. Whatever brought on this mania, the results have been fascinating.

The first thing I outlined was somewhere between a police procedural and a horror story. It had a sort of _Dresden Files_ feel to it— a world where supernatural monsters exist but most people still don’t believe in them. The concept was a suave, almost James-Bond-like character who secretly hunted monsters by pretending to be a government agent, and in this instance the hunt was focused on the ghost of a dragon haunting a castle. Even for a seasoned ghost hunter, my thought was that a dragon-sized ghost (who would still, presumably, be able to breathe fire) would pose a new challenge.

So, I outlined something: an action-packed battle in a castle, complete with a love interest in distress. But as I tried to write actual substance for it, I quickly became disheartened. I’m not sure I was sold on the main character, and found writing the action sequences to be a bit less enjoyable than seeing them in a film might be. It started to lean toward a satirical version of itself, but I never quite found enough to get it all the way there, either. It was all very frustrating—I had committed to making something of this idea, but the only avenue I could fathom appeared to be a dead end.

Annoyed, I brought this saga up in the next group session with Crowley, and he opened it into a group discussion. Everyone began offering suggestions of potential offshoots of the idea, and I walked out of class at the end a bit dazed, my mind abuzz with possibilities.

First, I dispensed with my generic male protagonist entirely, and revisited something from my past. In this iteration, it would be my futuristic collective of lesbian ghost hunters encountering the Ghost Dragon. The same group from the short story that inspired your sponsorship of me in the first place! It was quite fun to revisit them, actually. Enough so that I’m considering doing so again in the future. I’m not sure this exact new story could stand up on its own, but perhaps it will morph into something bigger down the line. Kevin has suggested it would fit as a comic book series or graphic novel. I don’t know that I’m ready for that, but it’s an interesting suggestion, at any rate.

After I had allocated the ghost hunting plot to my band of teens, I decided to give a stab at some of the other concepts my classmates inspired, as well. Why not, I decided. Some of them were so fresh and outlandish— perhaps I could find something really new and exciting in the attempt.

Becky had suggested a sort of multimedia style writing project, something that is apparently common in the world of fanfiction she inhabits. After ingesting some fascinating examples of the form, which she passed along, I sat down and wrote what amounted to a fictional (and humorous) self-help exchange with a supernatural advice columnist. In this piece, a reader has written in to ask my advice blogger how to get a ghost out of her new home, and over the course of the exchange it becomes clear that the thing was a dragon, in life. And said dragon is very displeased that a human has moved into their home. By the end of the messaging exchange, the woman’s house has burned down, but the angry dragon has “moved on” in peace, and the blogger is about to go on a date with her gorgeous questioner. I enjoyed writing this immensely, and the others tell me that my trademark dry humor lent itself to the form quite nicely.

Next, I embarked on another endeavor inspired by the class discussion, though not in such a linear way. A variety of unrelated comments had gotten me thinking about the assumptions we make—how my immediate trains of thought pitted the dragon as a villain, or at least as a problem to be overcome, and how that’s a fairly clear metaphor for so many of the problems we face in this world. I couldn’t get that out of my head, so despite having successfully completed the exercise of making something from nothing, I kept going. I wrote some sort of confessional/diary entry snippets from the dragon’s point of view. It was rather sad, and remarkably intense for something sparked by pure silliness, the tale of a being at the crossroads of things, stuck feeling just outside of several identities, wanting only to be loved, considered, needed. This dragon did not mean to haunt the castle— they were simply stuck in the castle. They did not wish to be so big in such a small space, to frighten the people who came there, to be in any way a problem for anyone. They simply _were_ , and there was nothing to be done about it. I had no expectation that this absurd dream notation would turn into some sort of handwritten therapy session, but there you have it. As I’ve said before, the writer and the writing are definitely linked, even if they don’t know it.

So, around this time, when I had written several small chunks of conflicted dragon ramblings, Garth made an unexpected suggestion. One of the others had asked over lunch how “the ghost dragon thing” was going, and when I explained about the new POV exercise, Garth exclaimed “that sounds like a children’s book waiting to happen!” Bela nearly choked on her sandwich in her haste to ask what the hell he was talking about, because “what parent wants to read their kid a story about a depressed dragon?” But, ever the earnest optimist, Garth laid out a fairly excellent point about the picture book medium and its potential to cover important topics within a fantastical framework, and how many different sorts of children who feel like outsiders could benefit from the dragon’s experience. By the end of his rant, even the ever-cynical Meg had to admit it was a valid point.

And that, Archangel, is how I came to write a children’s book last week. I never imagined that sentence coming truthfully from my pen, but here we are. I don’t have a title yet, but it’s the story of a kid who gets picked on by the other mythical creatures at school because she is both a ghost and a dragon. She has taken their taunts to heart, and come to believe that she is “doubly not real” and therefore somehow less than, not enough, the whole nine yards of low self-worth. But then she meets a kind jackalope who offers insights about what “real” even means, and how maybe the other kids’ perspectives on that are simply out of date. “You have a heart and a mind and a will”, the jackalope tells the dragon. “Sounds as real as anyone else, don’t you think?” It turned out to be far more touching than I anticipated, honestly. Even Bela thought so. Krissy recommended I send it to Alfie when I’ve finalized it, because she thought it had good insights into the foster kid mind. And apparently Garth’s brother thinks it sounds like it has legs as a window into an aspect of the trans experience, as well, which hadn’t even occurred to me. Supposedly Kevin’s girlfriend, an artist, is working on some sketches, so I might actually end up with an illustrated draft at some point soon. Wild how a toss away thought can spiral into something so unexpected and broad…

So, that’s mostly what I’ve been working on since I last wrote to you, Archangel. Ghost dragons everywhere! Perhaps this will be my legacy or perhaps not, but it has been a very informative ride, either way.

Beyond the sporadic flurries of frantic authoring, I’ve also been doing quite a lot of thinking about what I’m going to do with myself after this program has ended. I’ll have a bit saved up by the time graduation rolls around, which certainly puts my mind at ease. But I can’t coast on leftover stipend money forever, and it would be irresponsible to try for very long. So, I’ve been trying to determine what sort of “day job” would best allow me time to continue writing without sucking my soul entirely dry. I’m leaning, at the moment, toward tutoring, or the sort of teaching that doesn’t require me to go immediately back to school for a different degree. I’m fairly certain my skills in at least English, history, science, French language and Spanish language are still refined enough to tutor a high school aged student, and with a bit of a refresh I should be back up to scratch in most disciplines of mathematics, a swell. Depending on where I decide to live, I understand this can be a decently lucrative business for a recent graduate of my abilities, and I have quite a bit of practical experience instructing children and helping with their homework from my time at Angel Farm. Though, I probably shouldn’t give Naomi as a reference, given how pleased she was to see the back of me. I’ll think of something else. Perhaps one of my professors here can point me in the right direction. I wonder if one can teach ESL without a Master’s in Education? I should look into that, given my abilities with various languages. I’ve been meaning to expand my horizons to learn Arabic, so perhaps I should finally commit to starting on that journey…

Archangel! Stop the presses! I have just received news!

My vaguely ridiculous Gabriel-the-asshole-angel story is being published! I think I told you that I had submitted some work to a few publications (largely online) just on the off chance? Well, moments ago I received word that the website McSweeny’s wants to publish my story in their quarterly publication coming up. It’s possible I’m in a mild state of shock. (And it is also possible that Meg is currently scouring the Estate for a bottle of champagne, but that’s neither here nor there.) I’m very excited, Archangel, and I simply had to share with you.

Who knows, maybe I can just put “published author” on my resume and forego the teaching references entirely!

(Please don’t panic— I’m aware that’s now how jobs work. But in the glow of this giddy moment I simply cannot seem to let financial uncertainties and other petty realities formulate in my mind. Instead I shall float away on champagne bubbles for an evening, collect my professors’ good will, and get right back to work.)

Ah, I’m not sure I can write any more. My hands are shaking. And now Krissy is actually shaking me. I’ll leave you with this, Archangel:

Ghost.

Dragon.

Forever.

Yours in Effervescence,

Castiel

~

April 26, 2018

From the office of Mr. Michael Smith

Mr. Novak:

As your final semester at The Garden approaches, Mr. Smith wishes to extend his appreciation of your continued hard work, both within the program and along the terms of the Millicent Greenwaldt Memorial Scholarship. You have faithfully met the requirements each month, and given your recent news of publication it is clear that you are dedicating yourself to your growth and education just as any exceptional scholar should. This commitment does not go unnoticed.

While the Millicent Greenwaldt Memorial Scholarship must come to an end upon your completion of The Garden’s program, Mr. Smith’s support does not, necessarily, need to cease in turn. He sees potential in your work, and should you wish to continue on after graduation in a similar manner, Mr. Smith would be interested in sponsoring your work further. Should you agree, he would be happy to offer a very generous stipend, which should allow you to live comfortably and without need for a secondary vocation as you begin your time as a professional writer. The monthly correspondence would no longer be required, though occasional contact would be appreciated so that Mr. Smith could continue to follow your work.

All in all, Mr. Smith is very pleased with your progress, and he hopes you will consider his offer for the future, as he truly believes your career is on track to take off spectacularly. He also offers his sincere congratulations regarding your recent news of publication.

Sincerely,

Ms. Celeste Middleton, personal secretary to Mr. Michael Smith

~

May 8, 2018

Dear Archangel,

I have to admit, I’m not sure what to say. In the week since your letter arrived I have been twirling in circles trying desperately to figure out what to do.

Here’s the problem: your offer is so unbelievably generous—so sweet, so thoughtful, such an incredible honor. I am truly and deeply flattered that you consider my work worthy even of reading, let alone funding. To have a fan out there in the world, especially one as worldly as yourself, is something of an inspiration— a boost not only to my ego, but to my creative life, my drive to work, my stamina. I feel utterly blessed to have you out there supporting me. It’s like having family, but also perhaps more, as you found and follow me by choice rather than blind loyalty. To me, at least, that means more than I can say.

However— and, Archangel, please understand how grateful I truly am for everything you are— I do not feel I can accept your offer of continued sponsorship next year.

Please hear me out, Archangel. This is not a decision I have made lightly, and I want to be sure you understand precisely why I had to make it.

The thing is, while I know in my heart that you intend this offer as a gift, something pure of intention and aimed only at helpfulness, it immediately made me a bit uncomfortable. I know that was not your intention, truly I do. Perhaps it is a nasty byproduct of my upbringing that I cannot in good conscience receive an extravagant gift unearned. Or perhaps it is simply a newly found peculiarity in my behavior. But whatever the reason for this discomfort, it is not something I can look past in this instance.

In December, when you sent me the phone, you must have gotten an idea of my irregularity in this area. At the time, I attributed my disquiet to the specific gift at hand; an item I deemed a luxury, coming from a relative stranger for no apparent reason. I ultimately allowed myself to be talked into accepting this gift when I was made to see that it is not so much a luxury as a modern necessity for a working professional. The unlimited data you paid for was rather excessive, but the phone itself is a tool of my trade, at least on the business side. It is, effectively, a horrifically expensive school supply, and through this lens I could justify it, understand why you wanted me to have it, and see its function toward my professional growth.

But this? Please look at this from my perspective. What you are offering seems to be, at its core, free room and board with no strings attached for an undetermined amount of time, asking for nothing in return. It’s unreal. And even trusting you, which I do, I also think I have a right to be a bit wary of the proposal, don’t you? Even a writer kept by a patron in Victorian England would have been expected to offer something in return, wouldn’t they? Companionship or, at the least, entertainment? How can I offer this to you, whom I am not to expect to ever meet, when even the letters are no longer compulsory? I have nothing to offer in return, no way to feel I have even begun to earn such a luxury as full sponsorship. It is simply too much.

There’s also something else, Archangel, and I hope you won’t think me naïve or idealistic for saying it— I simply wish to be honest with you.

I don’t really feel comfortable being “kept” like a Victorian artist at all. Perhaps it is another peculiar byproduct of my upbringing, but I can’t abide the idea of hiding away in my work and being of no active use to the world.

I was raised on the notion of hard work, and while it is possible that Naomi’s severity has driven me a bit overboard in this regard, I do not feel I can disregard it entirely to live a life of unbothered ease. I feel fairly certain that having no external obligations would drive me mad within weeks. I can picture myself quite clearly, sitting there day in and day out, roiling in guilt for taking this extravagant charity, and trying desperately to write something spectacular to justify it, retreating into hermit-hood and losing myself to a fruitless attempt at perfection. It’s not a pretty picture. And, ultimately, not what either of us wants, I think.

So, Archangel, as completely insane as I’m sure this sounds, I will have to decline your offer. I think I need to make my own way from here, helped in no small part by the generosity you have already offered through the scholarship. I think I shall enjoy tutoring, if I can make that work, and I firmly believe there is much to be learned from such a vocation, which reminds one of the varied views and stories and experiences of the world. If I can be useful to others and learn in my own right, that’s really all I can ask. And if the path I end up taking differs from this vision, then so be it. I am ready to be a member of the world at large, whatever that might mean.

Well. Now that I’ve said all that, for which I hope you can forgive me if my choice offends you, I suppose I should move on to the rest of the news points. This will likely serve as my monthly letter, after all, given my current workload.

Classwork has been continuing along as before, as we all await Jody’s return with our final assignments. I’ve been playing around with the fruits of my Ghost Dragon labor, revision and rethinking, etc. Channing Ngo (Kevin’s artist girlfriend) really did send some design ideas about how to illustrate the children’s book, too. I was promised “sketches”, but she sent me gorgeous, full color renderings of several characters, and even one full scene. They are truly beautiful, and I’m so honored she thinks my story is worthy of her time and hard work. I might end up with my name on a picture book one of these days, and as surprising as I find that statement, I’m rather thrilled. When I’m happy with the revisions, I’m planning to send the manuscript to Alfie for his opinion. He always loved reading aloud to the younger children that came through the Farm, and I trust him to know if it’s worth submitting to children’s publishers at some point. Fingers crossed that he likes it.

I’ve also been toying around with a joint project with Krissy over the past few days. We think there’s potential for some kind of YA-style bildungsroman starring a kid in the US foster system, so we’ve been brainstorming all kinds of wild directions that could go. Perhaps it’s an almost campy, tongue-in-cheek tale, a la _Scott Pilgrim vs. the World_ , where the kid has to navigate a series of weird and wooly foster situations to escape to college? Perhaps it’s a bit more in the YA fantasy space, and our character needs to escape back to her friends at the group home because only they can save the world from some sort of evil creation? Or perhaps it’s a tender story of friends or siblings working to fit in, over and over, as they are sent from home to home, even an epistolary sort of “gritty _Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants_ ”? Who knows. We might split up at some point to write our own pulls from this joint brainstorm, but for now we’re having a great time sharing the process. I’ll keep you updated if anything dramatic happens, Archangel, I promise.

That’s most of the relevant news, for the moment. We have a two-week break in June to mark the start of the final semester— I truly can’t believe it’s already nearly 2/3 over. At first, I was considering accepting an offer to head downstate with Meg to visit Balthazar, but now I’m rethinking. Ellen has offered me the room at the Roadhouse again, and I think that might be the better choice. Apparently, Jo is considering making a try for college next year and could use a bit of help preparing for the SATs. I get the distinct impression that their financial situation has recently seen an improvement (very possibly due to something involving Dean and the end of the Roadhouse’s mortgage, though that’s only an impression) which would allow Ellen leeway to hire someone in Jo’s stead should she leave for college. I’d love to help in that endeavor, and it could serve as a dry run for my potential as a tutor, a test in a safe environment, among people who actively call me “friend”. I think this is the smarter choice for my break. And while I would enjoy relaxing with Meg and Bal, I do very much enjoy the company of the crew at the Roadhouse, as well. I might as well go where I can work, test my theory, and be among good people all at once, don’t you think, Archangel?

Yes. I have convinced myself. I shall write back to Ellen as soon as this letter is posted.

You give me clarity, Archangel. Even in silence. Aren’t you a wonder?

With love,

Castiel

~

June 9, 2018

Dear Archangel,

Greetings from the Roadhouse. I just arrived in East Jordan for the brief summer break, so I am writing to you this evening from “my” booth in the corner after devouring one of Ellen’s spectacular bacon cheeseburgers and a chocolate milkshake. A few feet away, Jo is demolishing some Fudgies at the pool table, and Ash seems to be explaining some obscure concept of Astrophysics to a bemused Rufus at the bar. Perhaps it is strange that I feel so at peace here, but I cannot deny that I do.

When I arrived a few hours ago, I immediately pulled Jo aside to discuss her course of study over the next week and a half. I think I told you that she’s considering a renewed attempt at undergrad – she came right to work for her mother after high school, but is now contemplating a change, and will need to undergo the usual testing. She is an incredibly bright young woman— I have a feeling my function to her will be more as a refresher of unused subjects than an actual teacher. We’ve set up some times, and discussed the various subjects we will cover, so we’ll dive into that tomorrow. Ellen has been so kind to invite me back, so I hope I can at least begin to repay her thoughtfulness by encouraging Jo in her academic aspirations. I’m glad I have something to offer in thanks— it makes my return feel less like an imposition.

But more on that in the next letter, eh? What have you missed of my life since I last wrote?

Well, I should confess that I worked myself up into a bit of a “state” after I posted my last letter. I was terrified that my refusal of your sponsorship was an irreparable misstep, an affront to your generosity and an offense to you personally. I was on edge for several days. Chuck started recommending some of his preferred calming techniques completely unprompted over breakfast on the fourth day of this, so clearly, I was not hiding my panicked shame as well as I thought.

But that very afternoon marked the arrival of the gorgeous azalea you sent, and all that certainty I had built up about your disappointment evaporated in an instant. The gift immediately earned a place of honor at the window in my room, and the effect there in the morning light with the daffodil you sent before is quite stunning. I love them both, Archangel, these little pots of blooming joy that remind me you are out there, real and human, constant and supportive even when my own choices misalign with yours. Thank you, my archangel, for understanding. And for choosing me in the first place, for that matter. It means the world to me.

And allow me to assure you that both plants continue to thrive. I have offered them into Joshua’s highly capable hands during my time away, so I have no doubt they will be healthy and happy when I return to the Estate.

But, Archangel, I have somewhat buried the lede in this letter. Because the true development in the last few weeks happened just in the last few days: Dr. Jody Mills returned to the Estate to hand out our final project assignments.

As I believe I’ve mentioned to you before, the idea with this assignment is for each of us to take Jody’s personalized recommendations and apply them to work during the final semester to see where the ideas take us. She designed these suggestions to push us, to open us up. They’re not writing prompts or structured assignments, but guiding ideas to be incorporated at will. It’s something like an independent study, I suppose, but with specific little focuses given to help us tweak and expand our horizons as we go. It’s an exercise in breaking through self-imposed barriers, really, and I know I’m fascinated to see where it takes me.

Jody’s arrival was no accident of timing. She specifically wanted to give our projects to us before our departure so that we could begin to “percolate” ideas during our break time. She met with us each individually again to explain her recommendations in detail and answer any questions. But (naturally) we all shared our assignments with each other immediately. That’s just the sort of bond we have as a class, I guess. And given how we’ve been workshopping so intimately together all year, I suppose it all would have come out eventually, anyway. None of our professors seemed all that surprised by our frankness, honestly.

So, despite your not knowing any of these people, allow me to tell you about all the projects! (Please, allow me? I’m fascinated and excited, and I have no one else to share all this with who will remotely care…)

Kevin, the sort of perfectionist who puts even the rest of us to shame, is being encouraged to relax his style to see what new can bloom through. His writing is often dense and intense, so Jody wants him to try something comedic— bits of satire, or sitcom scripts, or even standup sets— something wholly new and outside his comfort zone, either running with the formulas of the genre or breaking all the rules, depending on his mood.

Garth, alternatively, is a naturally cheery person, whose writing is pretty consistent with his hopeful and positive personality. Jody has suggested he play a bit with the idea of his audience, perhaps writing without one in mind for a change. She recommended starting off with journaling, the sort that isn’t intended to be read by anyone (even Jody), to see what honesty can bubble up when there is no one at the other end to please or cheer up or risk disappointing. Then, perhaps, he can take themes from that journaling practice and expand or fully translate into something fictional (or non-fiction, if he wants – no requirements either way) in a new way, without intentionally rounding the edges or brightening the shadows.

Becky is known for her epics, sweeping works with layers of characters and relationships, often in the Romance genre spaces. For her, Jody went a bit more down in the weeds for the assignment: she’s recommending Becky try setting some super tight restrictions on herself for an idea or two— a small scope (i.e. “2 hours, 4 characters, 1 location”), or trying an entirely new genre even if romance makes an appearance in the background, or even giving herself a word/page count and cutting down the story until it fits, no matter what. (Becky’s a bit terrified, I think, but I’d bet something really fresh will come out of this for her.)

Krissy, our resident Queen of YA, is being given a style change project, but with a twist. Jody, unlike many academics, very much sees the value of YA in the literary world, and does not wish to discourage Krissy from the genre itself. However, she does see the potential for Krissy to transcend the formula of many other YA pieces, so she crafted this idea to promote a stylistic expansion. She encourages Krissy to take YA ideas (old or new) and write them (or offshoots of them) in wildly different styles— poetry, Dickensian English, Greek dramatic tragedy, Shakespearean verse— anything classic or incongruous or out of the box that she can think of, to see how perhaps themes or ideas can be incorporated into the genre in new ways.

Jody very pointedly wants to help Meg work on breaking her own prejudices to open up horizons. Meg is a fierce woman, as I’m sure I’ve implied, and has strong opinions about the relative values of ideas and genres and styles and such. So, naturally, Jody is suggesting she take one or two of these tropes that she despises and lean into it. She wants Meg to write in that hated trope honestly, without parody or finger pointing, to see if she can find something new in there that changes her mind. (Since Meg has been struggling some with the concept of a redemption story, I suspect Jody is hoping that redeeming a trope will also serve as some kind of springboard for that deeper psychological battle at play. But perhaps I’m projecting my own hope onto Jody.)

Bela has been working for a while on navigating the complicated interplay of strength and weakness, vulnerability and hardness, femininity and the way it exists inside the patriarchy. She sometimes writes characters that have what Cain has dubbed “nerves of steel”— meaning they persist in inflexibility a bit too far beyond what most actual humans can bear, emotionally bullet proof. In an effort to help her reconcile a bit more vulnerability in her strong characters, Jody is recommending Bela take a story or event from a story and deeply dive in to write it from several involved points of view. She’s suggesting some kind of multi-character situation (perhaps a family gathering), and whether or not the actual telling is from a single POV or several, she wants Bela to turn aside and dive in to all of them, even just as background writing that would never be in a final story. I think it’s a bit like what a playwright might do, or even an actor— jumping fully into each character’s head to see every facet of their vulnerabilities and motivations.

And then there is me.

Archangel, I’m very excited. Jody wants me to jump headlong off a cliff into the unknown, and with The Garden’s crew as my safety net, I’m determined to give it my all.

So, as you know, the world I grew up in was very small. I really only knew a handful of people, despite attending public schools, and never really had occasion to travel outside my community or otherwise explore the world at large. I feel like my experiences are so painfully limited, Archangel, and if I’m to write about what I know, that can be very restrictive.

As a result, Jody wants me to throw that out the window and try something I don’t “know”.

The way she put it to me was this: “Try something big and personal, but outside your active life experience. Find a place where these two concepts meet, and let them combine. Meld them into something new and special and uniquely your own.” She encourages research and questioning of people, of course— how can one expand one’s mind without opening it up to learn? But she doesn’t want me to cut myself off from avenues because they are foreign. Instead, she wants me to use the tools at my disposal to learn about them, and then make them my own.

Beyond that, she simply wants me to aim for something honest in this project. My characters are allowed to act and think sardonically, if desired, (as that is my usual impulse…) but for the underlying tone of the story she wants me to forego sarcasm and parody for the purposes of this exercise. She complimented my work in that particular arena, which has been central to stories like the one about to be published and the one you read last year. But for this project she wants me to explore something else. (Don’t worry, Archangel, I don’t intend to abandon the one style I know you enjoy!) From there, she simply says “let the work expand as much as it wants. Let it have genres, even if it bridges them. Let it build out into the unknown, and do not be afraid.”

Can you see why I’m excited? Perhaps not. Perhaps this seems like the sort of thing that should be daunting, since it so fully pushes me outside my personal writer-box and casually brushes away fear. But, Archangel, I cannot think of a better place on Earth to take such a wild departure. At The Garden my time is my own to try and fail over and over again as much as I wish. My audience is a group of likeminded writers committed to doing exactly the same, and ready to help me learn from every failure without judging me for taking the risk in the first place. I can break down barriers all I want, and even if I tear myself to pieces in the process, I have people here I can trust to help me glue myself back together. There is nothing as thrilling to me as that, honestly, and I cannot wait to see what happens.

So. That’s the final project. I’m mostly focusing on working with Jo during break, as I said before, but I will be letting this simmer in the back of my mind this week. I might have an idea already forming of a place to start— something that involves taking a piece I’ve worked on before and transforming it, even combining it with other idea scraps… But it is VERY early yet. I’ll keep you updated, Archangel, never you fear.

Well, I should sign off now. I promised Balthazar a long form letter of his own, since I opted not to visit him over break, and my hand is already beginning to cramp up. But at least the mild discomfort is distracting me from the fact that McSweeny’s is putting out my piece tomorrow. Fingers crossed for a good reception, Archangel!

Yours in Anticipation,

Castiel

~

July 2, 2018

Dear Archangel,

My apologies for the slight delay with this letter— I had to take a bit of time to process some things before I could write to you about this particular vacation. There were several complex and seemingly contradictory feelings swirling around in my chest by the end of the break, and even I, a supposed wordsmith, couldn’t immediately articulate the how and the why of it all. Perhaps I still can’t, really— I certainly don’t have real, tangible answers. But I’m hoping the attempt to put this down in a letter to you will bring some clarity to my own heart.

Just as in December, I enjoyed the crew at the Roadhouse immensely. They were much the same as before, fun and loving and covering it all up with a thin veil of surly sarcasm. There was a new air of proud excitement, of course, over Jo’s impending college search— new possibilities stirring in the air, but without the high school senior’s usual undertone of panic. She’s got a good amount of time before next year’s application deadlines, and she’s looking at this whole ordeal as a possibility rather than a necessity. It’s quite a smart way of thinking, in my opinion, and while my time working as her tutor has solidified my confidence that she will be accepted to a good school in the end, I still think this more relaxed attitude will serve her well.

So, yes. Everyone at the Roadhouse is still wonderful and welcoming, and I was very happy to be back. And yet— and this is what I’ve been struggling to understand— there was something else as well, something other than happiness churning in my chest. I felt no less joy at being in East Jordan, but within hours of my arrival the joy itself seemed to ache, a physical thing settling deep in my chest, adjusting its depth in fits and at odd moments, smelling like love while tasting like tears. It was, at the time, baffling. There was nowhere on Earth I’d rather be, so why was I saturated with this unprovoked melancholy?

An answer didn’t occur to me until after I was settled back at The Garden, in the end. Not wanting to ruin the trip, I had put this tiny concern to the side of my mind during my time in East Jordan so I could relax and enjoy the casual atmosphere. But I pulled out the mental file when I got back to the Estate. I can’t really abide not understanding how I feel, if you haven’t noticed. I suppose I’m something of a chronic analyzer. But perhaps that comes with the trade.

And perhaps I’m stalling.

The thing is, Archangel, I think being welcomed back to the Roadhouse like family opened my eyes to the reality of that particular void in my life. Looking at things with a coldly analytical eye, I have never had this sort of reception before. I never left Angel Farm for more than a school day’s length, and even if I had done, there would not have been any guarantee that the same children would be there on my return. I can’t honestly say I would expect a warm reception there. And given that my departure was so explicitly viewed as final, I’m unlikely to ever have occasion to test that theory. As for The Garden, I do receive happy greetings upon my returns here, but there is that top layer over everything, that sense of expectation, that makes the exercise feel somehow less urgent. We all knew when we left for break that we would all return again at an appointed time, so when that day arrives the reunion is no surprise. It simply is, and the impulse is to catch up rather than to rejoice particularly in the fact of the reunion.

But this— returning to the Roadhouse, was something altogether new for me. There was no guarantee, when I left in January, that I would ever return. I knew I would like to, but my future was (and, truly, still is) too uncertain to know for sure. And while the Harvelle’s and their cohort had been wonderful to me throughout the holiday season, I couldn’t be positive that a return visit would be welcome even if I could manage it. I hoped, of course, but I could not be entirely certain their affection was genuinely as extensive as it felt when I left. When Ellen explicitly invited me to come back this summer, therefore, I was deeply honored. It put a warmth in my heart to be assured that I was wanted there, independent of usefulness. She and her family simply enjoyed my particular company, and they wished to experience it again.

I understood this, objectively, from the moment I received Ellen’s invitation. But I don’t think anything could have prepared me for the reality of it. Every single member of the Roadhouse family welcomed me back with honest, sincere appreciation. Every one of them— including Ash, who rarely seems to exist fully on this plane of reality— specifically told me at some point in those first two days that they were glad I was back among them. They remembered things about my life and were actively interested in the progress of those things. They wanted to know about my work and my plans, and when I confessed to being published, Jo immediately found my story online so she and Ash could perform a dramatic reading of it for the entire bar. (That part started out rather embarrassing, but Ash’s delivery of Gabriel’s more questionable commentary was so inspired that I forgot my nerves in tears of laughter.) They so wholly and unblinkingly pulled me back into their world, and it left me, frankly, stunned.

I expect you find it bit shocking, Archangel, that this was such a new experience for me? Or, if not shocking, then slightly sad. I expect (or, certainly, hope) that you experience this sort of thing with regularity, reuniting with the friends and family you’ve accumulated over your years of school, work, and life out there in the world. For most, this reception appears to be a normal experience, even ordinary, expected, assumed. Imagine my surprise to encounter it first at 22.

It’s not as though I expected these people to have forgotten me after a few months, but… well. I don’t have a lot of precedent with which to gauge how “memorable” I am, I suppose. Heavens, that sounds even worse when I spell it out on paper.

In any case, I’m not angling for pity here— that is, honestly, the last thing I want. But I guess I hadn’t expected being so thoroughly welcomed to hurt in the way that it did. All the warmth of belonging was plagued by the realization of its absence in my young life. By the loneliness of relying on relative strangers for this kind of display. By the embarrassment of being so surprised in its face. And by the simmering fury, I think, that Naomi never once even considered I might be worth loving so openly. Objectively I know (mostly) that this is her flaw rather than one of my own character, but somehow that makes it no less painful.

Anyway. Throughout the break I could feel all this boiling below the surface layers of my skin, vibrating confusedly no matter how much I tried to ignore it. And then, a few days into my stay, Dean arrived and threw my heart for yet another loop.

Archangel, have you ever learned one tiny bit of information and immediately needed to reevaluate your entire worldview in the light of your discovery? Okay, I’m exaggerating a bit— my entire worldview did not alter. But my understanding of the last few months was thrown into question with a toss away story.

The thing is, Archangel, I should know better! Femininity is not a requirement for queerness in a cisgender man— I learned this young, by my own research, and I explained this very truth to several of the kids who came through Angel Farm during my tenure. And yet, when presented with a tall, broadly built man with a deep voice and a muscle car and an apparent flannel obsession, I fully assumed any degree of queerness was off the table. Perhaps I was just so relieved that this lovely man, clearly dropped to Earth from an LL Bean catalogue, was actually an ally to my community that it seemed too much to think him an actual member thereof. But whatever I assumed, I was wrong. On his second night at the Roadhouse he casually mentioned his “ex-boyfriend Aaron” on the periphery of a conversation and just barreled on to finish the story. I cannot remember how the tale ended, truthfully. My mind was stuck, and our entire relationship to date was bouncing off the walls of my brain like memory ping pong.

It’s not that I suddenly think less of Dean, Archangel. Sexuality is not some magical barometer of “goodness” or “badness”. It is simply a piece in the whole of a person. But I certainly needed to reexamine _myself._ Every word I had uttered and action I had taken in conference with Dean Winchester had been chosen under the erroneous assumption that the most I could ever hope to become to the man was some kind of friend. But suddenly I had to strip that parameter away, and I was left in a haze of wondering.

You must know by now how much I like Dean. He is beautiful, yes, and quietly brilliant, and immensely thoughtful, and I have gushed about him to you enough over these past few months. I guess I had seen our interactions as a game we were playing— the queer guy with the hopeless crush, and the hetero dude who is secure enough in himself as an ally to give as good as he gets without fear. But when even the tiniest flicker of possibility creeps in, that teasing suddenly looks dangerously similar to flirting, and that, Archangel, gave me pause. Because an unrequited crush is very different from something that could, possibly (at least theoretically) be requited.

I snapped myself out of my mental stall as best I could that night, and tried to reserve my confused panic spirals for moments alone staring at my bedroom ceiling. The last thing I wanted was for Dean to feel uncomfortable about his ever-so-subtle confession. I relegated my uncertain little fears to the very corner of my mind and worked my hardest to let things proceed as they had before.

The difficulty is that this trip wasn’t like before. Past visits with Dean have also included Meg and Bela— and more recently Charlie— and have occurred in places of leisure and pleasure, unencumbered by additional obligations and outside influences. Our correspondences between these meetings have been casual and pleasantly pedestrian— texts and emails about everyday amusements and frivolous fancies. But this… Dean and I were both on vacation, but those around us were not. For the Harvelle’s and their clan, this was an ordinary week with guests floating around the edges of their daily responsibilities.

In a sense, Dean and I were on an island apart, free to explore the town on our own whenever my tutoring sessions with Jo were complete. And that is exactly what we did. Dean took me around this community that had housed the better parts of his childhood; the quietest lake spot for lounging, unbothered, on a summer afternoon; the best pie joint in the county that the tourists hadn’t ruined yet; the secret hilltop clearing where he had once shot off illegal fireworks for two hours before the telltale flash of police lights had broken the distant road. He walked me through his best memories, Archangel, welcomed me into those corners of himself unprompted and unashamed. He even took me to an honest-to-goodness drive-in movie theatre one night, to lay on the hood of his pristine classic car and eat popcorn to the sounds of a cartoon battle. It was like something out of a film, Archangel, and it took everything in me to remember that (despite the structural similarities) these were not, in fact, dates.

And then, the ache of this emotional incongruity was only compounded by the openness of the quiet and the conversations we shared along the way. That day at the lake was like a religious experience. Dean, a man who holds his hurts and worries close so as to protect the ones he loves, was suddenly unencumbered, utterly relaxed in his trust of me. We lay there on the grainy beach in the afternoon light, and it was more than I ever could have imagined. Something about him is effervescent on any given day, glowing through like a beacon even in darkened hallways and grey, foggy dawns. But there in the yellow heat, Archangel, he positively shone, drawing my stare like the North Star. It would have been embarrassing if anyone had been around to watch me endlessly gaze, but I couldn’t seem to stop. It was like I could see his soul alight, glittering there on his skin, burning out into the universe with a purpose, even as he dozed in the sun.

And then, another day gone to star-studded night brought us to his secret hilltop. Side by side again, we lay on a blanket watching the cosmos swirl as the car ticked to cool at the edge of the path, and Dean opened up his heart like a flower at dawn and spoke. Not only had he heard my past suggestions that his brother, Sam, might be within reach, he had taken it to heart. He told me, there in the mid-night glow, that he couldn’t shake my words, that for the first time in so long he saw small glimmers of hope in this particular mess. He shared with me the sort of fears I would not repeat (even to your own trusted ears), and I saw with burning clarity the depth of this man’s pain, the dismissal he automatically applies to himself, the void where his self-worth should shine. I did my best, Archangel, to meet these confessions with the care they deserve. I reached into my writer’s soul and released all the beautiful things he is to my eyes (holding back only the sort of details that could frighten a friendly companionship toward unease). I did my best, and he seemed, at least, to listen. We spoke long into the night, and found our way through strategies and plans he might employ should he opt to contact Sam. I can’t tell you whether he will act, in the end, but if anyone would be brave enough to take that plunge, I truly believe it would be Dean. I do so hope this goes his way. He deserves to gain his family back, however he can.

On its face, it was a beautiful night— a beautiful week, really. Romantic uncertainties aside, it felt so good to be trusted in this way, Archangel, to be relied upon for advice, to have my opinions desired and welcomed. But with each confession from Dean my guilt also compounded. He has now shared things with me that no other soul knows, as far as I can tell, and yet here I sit still lying to him. As far as he knows, I grew up with an aunt— I have painted an unadjusted picture of Naomi for him, but still I have claimed her as my own in a way she would no doubt despise. And you, Archangel— with you I have done the same. You who I have dubbed my Distant Uncle of Means, kind enough to fund my studies unseen. Despite the open and vulnerable state Dean has allowed me to witness, still I cannot stand to show him my deepest shame. How can I? This brilliant, tender, strong man has deigned to take me into his confidence— how can I tell him how unworthy I am of such welcome? How utterly alone I am in this world? How little I have to offer him even as a friend, let alone anything more intimate?

The battles in my heart have been myriad this summer, Archangel, as I’m sure you can see. The heights were beautiful and the depths were unpleasant, and I do not know how I can ever hope to reconcile it all. A reckless part of me gazed upon Dean in the light of the drive-in screen and wanted desperately to kiss his laughing lips with all the appreciation my heart has built up in our months of acquaintance. But the Naomi-tinged voice of my most cynical conscience rang through with a laundry list of contrary points. I am nothing in comparison to him, most of all— can I guarantee that any reason I might have for accepting his devotion is “the right reason”? And what absurdity even makes me think I will ever have the chance to find out?

Heavens, I’m rambling more, even, than usual, and this is not the discourse you signed up for. I’m truly sorry, Archangel. Let’s refocus, shall we?

Despite these domestic storms of emotion, I did keep up my work during the break, at least enough to feel on task now that I’m back at the Estate. Krissy and I are still finding time to work together on our foster-child-musings, and have recently been discussing how a living Purgatory could provide an apt metaphor for fosterdom. I’m not yet sure where that will take us, but given my penchant for Biblically-aligned concepts, I found the idea very intriguing. Beyond that, I have been diving deep into ideas and attempts for my final project, helped immensely by the fact that Jody is here almost full time now. She and I have connected very quickly, to be frank. I love her sense of humor, not to mention the seamless way she employs it in and around serious conversations to keep me at ease even as she pushes my limits. I am learning so much, and I am unbelievably glad to have gotten the opportunity to work with her even for such a brief period of time. It is truly a blessing.

I have thought about sharing more with you about the ideas I’m working through on my final project, Archangel, but… I have decided to hold off for now. I know, objectively, that you would not judge my under-formed inklings of ideas, and might even enjoy watching the strange progress they make toward the end result. But in the end, I have decided to wait. For one thing, I have been writing for far too long now, and my hand is starting to hurt. But mostly, I’d like to hold on to my plan a bit longer. I think you will enjoy the element of surprise, here. And if not, then consider it a tiny payback for how little I get to know about you!

I should get back to work now, unfortunately. Well, not “unfortunately”— I do enjoy the work here, especially these days. But I also enjoy writing to you, even when it feels like shouting into the void. Thank you for hearing my confession this month, Archangel. Thank you for being my void.

With Love,

Cas

~

August 15, 2018

Archangel!

We have reached the final weeks of our tenure here at The Garden, and as you can imagine that means a wide variety of things all happening at once. The final projects are coming to the end of this phase of their lives, final words of wisdom are falling from the lips of our educators like summer rain, and the future looms in the distance, closer every moment. It’s all a bit daunting, but no less exciting for the uncertainty, in my opinion.

Where to start? Well, I left you with very little to go on regarding my final project when I wrote last month, so I suppose I should take pity on you in that regard. Here’s what happened: I, Castiel Novak, writer of strange and snarky short stories, seem to have find my way into entirely new territory.

I’m not sure how much I told you before about my project’s prompt. The upshot was that I needed to push myself out of my comfortable little bubble of knowledge and let something honest and unknown take over. It was quite a ride, let me tell you, as I pulled together some past characters and concepts into a new space and let them run wild. The end result was pleasantly unexpected.

Let me be clear— this piece is in no way “complete”. The assignment was never meant to yield a finished work by the end of the program; it was an exercise in growth and challenge. And, in any case, we have a few more days yet before things finish up around here.

That said, I’ve written something I’m quite pleased with, and as I work on polishing it up for submission to Jody, I can already tell this story will have a life far beyond the Garden’s boundaries.

It started with some things I’ve enjoyed writing over the past year, namely the various ghost dragon iterations and their offshoots. I started toying with the idea of horror elements floating subtly over the top of a more ordinary world, where the more everyday terrors are only a small skip away from the supernatural, almost an inherent adjacency. More than that, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about the sort of lost, unseen people of the world who might devote themselves to holding such horrors at bay. It became clear to me, eventually, that such crusaders might be the children of an absent father with no home to speak of, rather like the Winchester boys once were. And, perhaps, such crusaders might be rather like my younger self, as well.

So, somehow, I started writing a story of two young adults fighting, largely alone, against the monsters of lore. My brother and sister team live in motels and have spanned the country several times over, saving lives under the radar from a young age, heedless of the truth that this fight should never have fallen on the shoulders of children. They do it because it is what they know and what they are best at, and by the time we meet them in my story, they think they’ve seen it all.

Until they come across a strange wandering orphan who is convinced that he is an Angel of the Lord.

The story spirals out from there— the siblings end up taking the odd young man under their collective wing, since he is also hunting supernatural evils but has very little experience with such things. Soon enough he is one of them, and as things escalate it becomes clear that our orphan isn’t so much the “ordinary dude” his new friends assumed, and that his bond with the elder brother is far more complex than any of them anticipated.

Somehow, Archangel, without realizing it or ever having planned it, I seem to have begun writing a novel.

It’s not that I never considered trying something more long form, of course. There’s certainly a much wider mainstream market for such things these days than in short fiction. It’s just that I’ve always been drawn to little slices of life, moments that bubble up and crash back down only to be left for the reader’s imagination to reassemble. But this has been something else entirely. Perhaps I’ve been building up to it for some time, through my futuristic lesbian collective and my various ghost stories. But whatever the reason, I have been seized by this core trio of wayward warriors, and I cannot even begin to let them go. I see new arcs and bigger fights in their futures, unearthed secrets and at least one deep diving romance, and I rather think I might actually write most of it. So, I guess stay tuned, Archangel— I might be a novelist after all.

Well, that’s where my project stands at the moment. If I hold on to everything I’ve written so far through the polishing and editing phase these next few weeks, I expect what I turn in to the professors in the end will be a novella of sorts.

The others are working hard as well, trying to dive as deep into the uncertainties of their own projects as possible. Bela has been working especially hard at softening herself in the face of her task, and it seems to have allowed her quite the opportunity for soul searching. Strangely, as I’ve observed and tried to help her sort out her journey this month, I’ve begun to feel myself beginning to learn quite a bit about how a female experience can boil in contradictions. She has come to me several times as a sounding board, and has inadvertently opened my eyes to some of the unexpected ways this world squeezes a woman like her in a vice between evil and purity— the million different ways every choice will be interpreted, the depths that the tiniest miscalculation in a seemingly frivolous decision could mean failure, dismissal, even danger. To see how vulnerability is made to weigh on such a tenacious soul has captivated my attention and opened my mind to so many things I have missed. I hope only that my open ears can help her meet her challenges here. We have come to connect on a much more profound level than I could have anticipated, both in friendship and in collaboration, and I want to give back to that connection even as I learn from it.

And speaking of “giving back” to someone who has taught me these last months, I have some news on the topic of my future situation as well. Jody— yes, the same Jody Mills who has been mentoring us through this final semester— has offered me a place to go next. She and her partner, Donna, have an adopted daughter who is trying to catch up in some areas of schooling now that she’s settled in a permanent, stable home. Jody and Donna have been looking into options for tutoring, and when they learned of my plans to take up just such a vocation in the Fall, they asked if I would consider being the one to work with Claire. It does seem especially serendipitous, given that Claire went through several foster homes in the last few years before finding her way to Jody and Donna. Jody confided to me that she believes Claire would benefit from a bit of emotional mentorship in addition to her tutoring, and she thinks I would be an excellent fit on both fronts.

Archangel, I think I’m going to accept Jody’s offer. The pitch she gave was that I should come downstate after my graduation here, and start tutoring Claire as the new school year begins. She says she will happily recommend my services to other parents in the area as well – at least two of whom are apparently already interested in my credentials— and she would put me up in the carriage house on her property for an absurdly reasonable price if I would rather not search for my own accommodations just yet. This would afford me a place to work on my own writing while also building some financial cushioning, and would keep me in close enough proximity to the city in case my own writing opportunities expand from there. And, most of all, it sounds like the sort of setup that would let me step into the world with some sort of community around me. I cannot describe what a comfort that thought brings. At the moment, I can’t really see a downside to this plan.

In the meantime, the more creative side of my career has seen some developments as well. My story in McSweeny’s received a very positive reception, and my contact there has asked me to keep in touch when new stories are ready. Plus, one of the print publishers I submitted to earlier in the year has been in touch about working with me. Ms. Blake, my contact at the publisher’s office, has one of my stories in mind for a short story anthology she’s working on, and has expressed an interest in a compilation of my own short stories somewhere down the line, as well. In light of this news, Pam has helped me get set up with an agent by the name of Missouri Mosley, who is exactly the blend of generous and formidable that I want on my side in this business. We have only met by phone and Skype thus far, given how far Up North I am at present, but I can see exactly why Pam trusts her so completely. It’s all a bit of a whirlwind, honestly, but I feel much safer in this storm with Miss Mosley as my anchor.

Those are the main points of interest for the moment. But there is one final thing I would like to say to you, Archangel.

To mark the completion of the program this month, Chuck is holding a ceremony here at the Estate— a graduation, of sorts, where our certificates will be distributed and a small reception will be held for friends and family.

Now, I hesitate to even mention this here. Realistically, you are meant to be my benefactor and nothing more. But, to be honest, there is no one else I would wish to have there to see me complete this program, Archangel. You have made this possible. You have put up with my ridiculous musings all year without complaint, you have forgiven my repeated impertinence and frivolity, and thanks to your generosity I am not only about to finish a graduate-level program in a field I have always dreamed of braving, I am doing so with an agent, a job offer, a potential publishing contract, and a fresh network of new friends and colleagues to whom I can always turn. I will never be able to thank you enough for these exceptional gifts, and my only wish is that I might offer my humble thanks to you in person, just this once.

Please, Archangel, I hope you will consider attending. It would mean the world to me.

_The Garden_

_2018 Commencement_

_August 26 th_

_Ceremony 2:30pm_

_Reception 3:00pm_

_The Shurley Estate_

_315 Maple Grove Rd._

_Charlevoix, MI_

Ever yours,

Castiel

~

August 26th, 2018

Mr. Smith,

As of the posting of this letter, I have officially completed the post-graduate creative writing program at The Garden. I received my certificate of completion at the commencement ceremony yesterday, and will depart from the Shurley Estate for the final time this afternoon.

Please accept my sincerest thanks for the generous sponsorship you have provided over the past year. Not only did I thoroughly enjoy my time here amongst such an earnest and creative group of writers, I have learned far more— about my craft, about the world, about myself— than I ever could have hoped when I began this journey. I hope you can appreciate how profoundly your gift has changed my life. I shall never forget your generosity or take it for granted, and I only hope I can one day live up to the faith you have put in my work. I certainly intend to try my hardest to do just that.

In Gratitude,

Castiel James Novak.

~

August 31, 2018

My dear benefactor,

I’m sorry, I simply cannot leave it like that, with a stiff word of thanks and nothing more. I meant everything I wrote to you earlier this week, truly, but the dry and pseudo-formal tone was uncalled for. You know by now: this isn’t my way, and I don’t want to leave off on such a disingenuous note.

Please allow me to explain myself. I must admit that when I wrote to you on Monday morning I was rather upset. With the benefit of hindsight, I feel quite foolish for having been so, but embarrassment cannot scrub the feeling from my past, I’m afraid. It bubbled up and weighed on me as I wrote and posted what I assumed would be my final letter, and it only began to dissipate as I packed my car to leave for my new home downstate.

Thank you for the hyacinths, by the way. They arrived just before my departure, and now sit in the windowsill of my new bedroom, overlooking the back door of Jody and Donna’s home, as though guarding their herb garden.

Perhaps these flowers, a perfect complement to the others you’ve sent me this year, were what began to melt the frost that had coalesced on my heart on Sunday afternoon. Or, perhaps the emotional warming was a byproduct of the distance I gained from the Estate. But whatever the reason, by the time I looked on my new home for the first time, Sunday evening’s pain had begun to subside.

And I suppose I’ve been dancing around the truth of this, haven’t I? The fact is, I was hurt on Sunday evening. My classmates all welcomed people they loved to our commencement ceremony— even Krissy, who invited up some college friends. And while there were people there that I knew, people who were proud of my accomplishments, none of them had come for me, specifically. Dean came to support his cousin, and Balthazar was there for Meg, and there was no one I could claim solely for myself.

Perhaps this shouldn’t matter. I still achieved something great here, and I was heartily praised for it. Dean even brought me flowers – jonquils, apparently – which was painfully sweet of him. But I barely had a chance to thank him, in the end, and even as I did he seemed a million miles away. Balthazar hauled in champagne for Meg and I, later in the evening, but I can’t imagine my gratitude for his kindness rang particularly true. It is jarring to feel entirely alone while surrounded by friends.

The truth is, I had no one on Earth to invite to my commencement other than you, you see? The crew in East Jordan has done more than enough for me during our brief acquaintance, Hannah is exceedingly busy and anxious with a new internship just now, and Angel Farm? Well, Alfie is too young to drive, and undoubtedly has better things to do with the new school year approaching. No one else there would be much interested in my life, at this point.

All this is why I took the risk of inviting you in the first place, Archangel. I knew, objectively, that it was unfair of me to request such a thing of you. It was made plain from the start that I was never to know you, and how could I expect someone of your stature and importance to drop everything just to drive across the state to watch some twentysomethings receive a certificate? It is, on its face, an absurd idea.

And yet, I hoped. You had, I reasoned, been more responsive throughout the year than originally anticipated, sending gifts and even recommendations for my future. I think I let myself believe that I knew you in some small way, even if the only hard facts I had to go on were your mailing address, your taste in flowers, and your appreciation for the charms of towns much less grandiose than your wealth affords you. More than this, I let myself begin to believe that your regard for me was specific to my letters; that you had come not only to appreciate my work ethic and the product it generates, but my…personality, I suppose. My company.

I realize now how presumptuous that was, and how inherently foolish. Perhaps you have enjoyed my letters more than is usual, but maybe this is just your way. Perhaps in the nearly 15 years this scholarship has been awarded you have offered continued funding to a number of students, or even to all of them. I do not, I must remind myself, actually know you.

Therefore, I feel it was supremely unfair of me to judge you this week by your absence at my commencement. There are countless circumstances that might have kept you away, all of them fair; even “disinterest” is your right, in this instance. You, Archangel, are not to blame for my isolation in the world. In fact, your gift has gone a long way toward making isolation a thing of my past, and for that I deeply thank you. While I am disappointed to never have met you, I don’t feel I can deny your right to remain un-met. And so, with that in mind, I intend to press on without malice for Sunday’s disappointments.

Well. With that all said, I suppose this really is my final letter to you. In case you’re waiting with baited breath to know the tale’s end, allow me to share some exposition from the denouement of my graduate year.

As you might have guessed, I accepted Jody’s offer of lodging and employment. I am now the proud renter of the “mother-in-law-suite” behind the large but comfortable home where Jody lives with her partner Donna and their 15-year-old daughter Claire. (Meg says this is a fitting home for me because my “icy burns would make any mother-in-law blush.” That’s a direct quote. I’m choosing to take it as a compliment.) Donna is, on the surface, her wife’s polar opposite. She is the sunshine to Jody’s heat lightning, the perk to Jody’s snark, the Minnesota Ernie to Jody’s South Dakota Burt. She is a fair-haired ball of energy who drops more “sorry’s” and “you betcha’s” than a Canadian life coach, and she knows enough local gossip to talk your ear off for hours on end. She is also the local sheriff. She is a complete delight.

Claire, on the other hand, is more like a surlier teenage version of Jody. She’s only been with her Moms for a little over a year, so residual behavior from her time in the foster system hasn’t really worn off. She’s unsurprisingly wary, but seems to be beginning to entertain the idea that this might be the permanent home Jody and Donna assure her it is. She’s snappish and a bit obdurate, but more in the way of average teenagers than of a hurting child acting out. We’ve not started into actual tutoring yet, but I can already report she is very bright behind her cool façade. Once I manage to catch her up on some of the finer points she missed while being shuffled from school to school, I’m fairly certain she will pull even beyond the standard curriculum. We seem to understand each other, I think: I know how much she cares about making her Moms proud despite how little she’s willing to show it, and she knows I’m going to treat her like a Real Person both in spite of and because of her history. It seems like a good start, at any rate.

Adding a little color to all of this domestic bliss is Krissy, who is staying with me in the carriage house for the time being. Her next plan is to take a road trip out West with a college friend and see some National Parks, but they can’t leave until Aiden finishes up their internship. So, for the next few weeks, Jody and Donna’s dinner table is graced not only with myself, but with yet another wayward foster survivor. Claire was only wary of Krissy for about 10 minutes before the two were suddenly neck deep in some sort of pop culture interrogation that is completely beyond my understanding. Now, three days in, they seem to have developed telepathy and can have very eloquent conversations by barely moving their faces. It’s remarkable, really.

I suppose those are the headlines, then. I’m continuing work on what was my final project, tentatively named “The Road So Far”. The professors all agreed that it felt like a potential novel, and I want to see if that proves to be true. Apart from that, I’m mostly spending my time reading what I can about tutoring techniques, as well as trying to make myself as useful as possible in and around the property. I can see myself being very happy with this as my home for the foreseeable future. And if Missouri, my agent, is to be believed, my work has a bright future ahead of it as well.

Oh, Archangel, I so hate that this is probably goodbye. In the last year, I have come to enjoy writing to you, the simple progress reports turning happily into a treasured activity. I can only hope that reading my letters has brought you even a fraction of the joy I experienced in writing them. I shall miss my guardian angel— not for the money, but for the simple fact of you somewhere out there in the world and, at least once each month, thinking of me. I hope you know what a gift you have given to me, Archangel, and that I shall never stop thinking of you.

With gratitude and love,

Castiel Novak

~

October 22, 2018

Dear Archangel,

Well, surprise! I suppose you thought you were rid of me. And I intended for that to be so, frankly. Your term as my benefactor was up, and I have no further claim to your attention. But I’m lost in a bit of a crisis, you see, and cannot think where else to turn. My need for advice cannot be either quashed or resolved elsewhere.

I love my friends, I do. But my problem centers on Dean, so I cannot go to Bela (his cousin) or even to Ellen or Jo (his family). Krissy is half way to Yosemite right now, Hannah is freshly out as aromantic and a bit too emotionally raw to be expected to deal with my problems, and Jody & Donna are not only my elders but also my employers. And Meg? Well. Meg is a bit too much of a skeptic and a cynic when it comes to matters of the heart, so honestly, I cannot trust her opinion on this particular matter. So, you see, there is no one to whom I can relate this particular panic. No one but my glorious guiding void, the silent star who helped me to order my thoughts this year without even a word.

Look, I know that twentysomethings ranting about their romantic lives is categorically NOT what you signed up for. And if you don’t wish to read this, that is fully within your rights. But the act of writing to you has so helped me over the past year, and I need that sort of help today. I don’t expect you to actually give me advice, of course— I have learned my lesson on that score, I promise. But I will imagine you at least reading my latest rambling, even if you actually threw the letter away unopened. I will picture you taking my thoughts in slowly, contemplating them in all your wisdom, and then beaming the right choice to me on the wind from the comfort of your easy chair. That, I fear, is the only outcome that will steer me right.

The problem, Archangel, is that Dean Winchester has invited me out on what is unmistakably a date. If your immediate reaction is “some problem!” I can understand. But I beg you to really consider: Dean Winchester— sweet, brilliant, beautiful Dean with a fancy job and a Michigan Engineering degree and a history of overcoming the greatest of odds—wishes to take out little old me— underwhelming Castiel Novak with a quick enough wit to cover up some of his flaws, but no family, no worldly experience, and no guarantee of a bright future in the tough world of published fiction. What on Earth am I to do?

So many fears and stray pessimisms have bubbled up in my mind since Dean texted the invitation last night. First, there is the fact that I have kept up the charade of having an uncle (you) who sends me gifts for months now, weaving small lies into our conversations to keep up the appearance of family. On top of that, I am clearly feeling my own inadequacies much more keenly by virtue of imagining them through Dean’s eyes. He has risen from living in motels to a life of affluence and stability. Why in heaven’s name should he be bothering with a wayward weirdo like me when he could have anyone? I tutor for a living and live over my boss’s garage. The whole point of rising above poverty is that you can seek out romance with more vibrant and powerful people than you could have before, isn’t it? Maybe that’s a bit extreme. But really, how would I even begin to relate to his life? I know nothing of the normal ways of humans, let alone rich humans. And more importantly, perhaps, my romantic history is pretty much all literary— how can one date when one is an employee in his own home? (Not here! Jody and Donna are wonderful. But Naomi never afforded me luxuries like freedom or independence or visitors.) Alternatively, there is Dean, who was first described to me as a “playboy” by his own cousin. Knowing him as I do now, I can be fairly certain that he is more restrained now in that arena, but I don’t believe Bela was entirely misinformed. He experienced high school and college as so many others do, interacting with new people as much as possible, playing the field, experiencing romance from all sides as I have never had occasion to do.

What, Archangel, could he possibly see in me that would fuel his pursuit? He knows I am inexperienced in love, so I imagine even pure lust would be tainted with the inherent risks of choosing a virginal partner. And, anyway, we are friends. Playboy history or no, I cannot imagine I would be someone he would turn to for a quick, physical fling. There are much safer options if that’s what he wants, men and women with knowledge and skill who would be much more equipped to satisfy his needs. I would not be the natural choice.

But all that logic leaves behind is a more emotional or intellectual interest, and, as we have already established, I honestly don’t feel any more equipped to handle that. I, who have never left this state, and might never have left Angel Farm if not for a certain scholarship. I, who have barely been kissed and have never definitively dated. I, who learned the world through pages and pages of research but have no way to tell the fact from the exaggeration. How can I possibly hope to live up to the regard this exceptional man offers me?

Archangel, I simply cannot see a way this ends well. If I refuse the date, Dean will be hurt and I will have no adequate explanation to offer him. If I accept, there is no way I can hope to be enough for a man who has seen so much. Either way, I am keenly afraid I shall lose one of my closest friends, and it makes me unspeakably sad. I am at a loss for how to salvage the situation, and barring a telepathic revelation from yourself I have no hope of discovering a solution.

The proposed date is this coming Saturday. He wants to take me for cider and donuts at a favorite local spot, and to wander around a cute little town nearby. I think the only thing for it will be to accept the offer and go there to explain myself, to confess to having lied about having even some remote family, to try to make him understand that the interest he has shown me is a true honor, but one that is misplaced. I’m terrified this will net me one less friend, and will hurt immeasurably in the telling, but I cannot stand to lie to Dean any further. I must face up to the problems my reckless flirting has wrought.

Oh, Archangel, I wish you could advise me! I am sure the vast experience of your long life would yield the guidance I so desperately seek. But, in the absence of wise words, I will at least try to take solace in the bits of clarity I have formed while writing this letter. You do more than you know, simply by existing, Archangel.

Please send luck!

Yours, always,

Castiel

~

It was an unassuming house, nothing huge or overly fancy. It was red brick, a couple of stories high, white windows blinking in the autumn light over a wide covered porch. It was lovely. But it wasn’t what Castiel had been expecting.

Perhaps his perspective had been a bit skewed, spending a year on Chuck’s Estate, but he had expected this place to be at least slightly…grandiose. Weren’t people with money to spare supposed to spend it on property and extravagances? This was no slum, mind you, but 525 South 1stwas certainly not a mansion.

 _Leave it to Archangel,_ Castiel thought, shaking off bafflement. _Always a surprise._

He still wasn’t sure about this. Now that he was here, it was starting to feel a bit too far on the creepy end of the spectrum, to have showed up, uninvited, at an address to which he has never been invited. But he hadn’t been able to help himself.

When he had walked out of Sarah’s office an hour and a half earlier, he had been in a bit of a daze. Missouri had given him a rather glorious hug, and his words of thanks for her were probably very eloquent and inspired, but he couldn’t actually remember anything after the contract was signed.

He was, definitively, being published. In book form. The kind with paper. This was happening.

And by the time he was back in the car, his daze had turned over to manic planning mode. He was already in town, anyway, so he had gone to a quiet bank branch and an undergrad-laden Staples, and he then had driven straight here. To the address he had written out at least once a month for a year.

If he was thinking rationally, he probably would have admitted that Dean’s little invitation was a definite factor in the choice to come here. Yes, he was in town, but Ann Arbor was not tiny. Sarah’s office was on the other side of the main campus, and getting from there to here had involved a rather alarming volume of slow traffic and wild undergrads sprinting for the bus. But he was so twisted up about what the next day would bring – when he did, he felt, have to confess to Dean or risk imploding with anxiety – that he barreled on toward the nearest source of comfort.

But, of course, the sense of overfamiliarity had waltzed in right about the time his Continental turned on to S. 1st, and now he was paralyzed.

The neighborhood was by no means silent, but compared to the chaotic Friday afternoon campus he had just driven through it felt positively suburban. And if he sat in this car too long staring at the house, someone would eventually notice. He had to make the call, one way or another.

So, he took a deep breath, opened the door, and resolved to just slip the envelope in the mail slot and be on his way. Hopefully Archangel didn’t have a dog that would tear it apart before it was found.

Giddy, Castiel crossed the street toward the house. The front lawn was a small almost semi-circular patch, arcing toward the sidewalk to make room for an extra sweep of front garden. Little baskets of purple flowers hung between the slim columns of the front porch, and as he approached he discovered a very comfortable looking trio of patio chairs there in the shade.

The front door was set back a bit on the right edge of the porch, so Castiel stowed his last glimmers of apprehension, climbed the trio of stairs up from the path, and approached.

There was no mail slot. Only a small box mounted to the wall with the word “welcome. This envelope would definitively not fit in the mailbox.

Well, too late now. He would just put it inside the screen door, and someone would find it eventually. It wasn’t going to get rained on with the sturdy porch roof overhead, anyway.

He crept in, suddenly praying that the car on the street out front belonged to a neighbor. With any luck, no one was home to see a stranger tiptoeing up to the front door in a trench coat holding a big manila envelope. He unlatched the screen as quietly as he could manage, just in case.

And he nearly yelped when the sturdy brown door behind it swung open simultaneously.

Then he nearly passed out when he realized the startled face staring at him from where the door had been was none other than Charlie Bradbury.

“Oh!” She said, clearly quite startled. Then, in the blink of an eye, her surprise morphed into recognition, followed inexplicably by something like panic. Her eyes were very wide. “ _Oh…_ ” she repeated, meaningfully.

Castiel blinked back online. “Charlie?”

“Uh…yeah,” she replied, her head tilting a bit like it wanted to shake the confusion away but was stopped mid-twitch. “Hi,” she finally said, eyes still plate sized. “Hi there. Hi Castiel.”

All Castiel could think was, _what is she doing here?_ “What are…” he began, but the question died as he realized how little information he had to work with here. Instead, in a wild effort to find something polite to say, he tried, “Do you know…?” But, then, he didn’t have a name, did he? Heavens, this was a disaster.

Then another voice joined in the confusion, as the sound of footsteps began to emanate from a nearby hallway. “Char, you forgot your…”

That’s as far as the sentence went before it stopped. Because the speaker had made it in from the hall and was standing in the door way staring at Castiel, color draining from his face, holding what appeared to be a dice bag covered in tiny cartoon Spock faces slightly away from his body in Charlie’s direction. There was a frozen moment.

And then Dean said, “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed, staring at him with impressive force. Dean’s eyes broke away from Castiel’s, and he seemed to engage in some sort of silent battle with her, made up largely of eyebrow movements and looks of desperation.

Castiel, for his part, was at a loss. When the silence had dragged on too long for him to handle, he eloquently ejected, “Um, I—“

Thankfully, Charlie came to his rescue, breaking the silence by donning an air of false excitement and snatching the dice bag from Dean’s hand. “Whoops, I’m gonna be late! Gotta go! Cas, come on in! Good to see you! K, see ya!” The whole thing happened in seconds. And then Castiel was standing in a cozy foyer with Dean, and Charlie was gone.

In her wake, Castiel realized he needed to snap out of his mental fog and attempt to behave like a human being. He cleared his throat. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s response came out in a very small voice. “Hey, Cas.” He had not moved yet, still standing with his now empty hand held slightly out in front of him. He was clearly going to be no help in this state.

So, Castiel pressed on. “I’m looking for…the person who lives here? I’m sorry, but I only know them by a pseudonym.”

That, at least, finally got Dean to blink. “Uh, yeah,” he said, turning slightly toward the room to his right. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He indicated a seating area arranged around a brick fireplace, clearly making his own attempt at human behavior, but sounding a bit like a panicked robot. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Oh.” _What?_ Why was Dean offering beverages in someone else’s home? “That’s okay. But thank you.”

“You sure? Some water? I could use some water…” Dean’s expression had descended into something manic now, and Castiel changed tack out of concern.

“Sure. Water would be great.”

“Great,” Dean replied, deflating with clear relief, and with one last vague gesture toward the living room, he headed back the way he had come.

Left, rather suddenly, alone again, Castiel tried to settle himself by taking in the room around him. It was a cozy space, walls of a soft blue circling a set of complementary furniture, mismatched just enough to suggest pieces were collected one by one across a lifetime. The sofa and chairs were quite clearly lived in, nothing freshly bought or plastic wrapped, but certainly well maintained.

There was a painted portrait over the fireplace, a man and a woman seated on a bench in some sort of park, timeless in their frozen beauty, laughing together at some unknown pleasure. Framed photos lined the mantle below this painted pair, and fanned out around the room, on tables and set among the bookshelves, even across the top of the small upright piano in the corner. It was bright, with autumn sun streaming through the front windows to settle in the room like a mist. It welcomed him in, so Castiel let his curiosity calm him and turned his gaze to the photos on the mantle. They seemed to be in no particular order, judging by the clothing styles. The couple from the portrait appeared in several, at various ages, sometimes with a small boy in tow. There were other adults as well – friends, perhaps – and then the small boy grown up with a baby in his own arms.

At the sound of footsteps, Castiel tore his eyes away from a photo of two young boys, trying his best to look like he hadn’t been snooping. 

“Here,” Dean said, handing over a glass of water. He still seemed strung pretty tight, not quite looking Castiel in the eye quite yet, but his moment to breathe in the other room seemed to have settle him some. “Have a seat,” he said softly, gesturing toward the center of the room.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Castiel offered, desperate to have his ambush forgiven. “I just—“

But Dean cut him off with a gentle, “Please.” He looked a little desperate himself, but his tone was as warm as it was firm. So, Castiel took a seat in a comfortable looking floral chair. Dean, for his part, took a seat at the far end of the couch, and proceeded to simply stare into his own glass of water. 

Starting to get wound up again by the thousand possible explanations bouncing around in his mind like Power Ball numbers, Castiel decided he needed to get things moving. “I’m confused, Dean,” he began, making sure no frustration or aggression crept into his voice. “The person who lives here – are they in?” _Fuck it_ , he thought. There was nothing for it: he was going to have to start coming clean now. “I simply wanted to share some news with them that they might appreciate. They provided me with a scholarship…”

“I know.”

Castiel blinked. “You…know?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean replied. Then, with a visible breath, he very deliberately met Castiel’s eyes, and confessed. “Millie Greenwalt was my grandma.”

Castiel was usually pretty quick with comprehension, but something about this statement in this moment in this sunny living room simply would not compute. “Your… what?”

Now it was Dean’s turn to blink. This was not what he had been braced for, apparently. “Um. She was a Creative Writing professor for most of her life. So, when she died, my Grandpa Henry made the post-grad scholarship in her name, and he hand-chose all the recipients himself.” When Castiel didn’t immediately respond, Dean gestured up at the portrait over the mantle. “That’s them.”

“Oh,” was all Castiel could muster. His head was spinning, and the things it was turning up only confused him further. “But— I thought you said your Grandfather had passed away several years ago?”

“Two, yeah.”

“Then, how…”

“He left everything to me, Cas,” Dean interjected. “Well, me and Sam, but…you know about that part. And it’s a whole lot of money. Grandpa put both me and Sam through college – though we told everyone that was all scholarship money, since Dad woulda lost his shit that we talked to his Dad at all. So, yeah, he left a whole big estate, and I handle it now. Or, I try to, anyway.”

Logic seemed to be returning to Castiel’s mind, but he still couldn’t quite get through. “So, who…” And then a truly wild possibility hit him. “Wait.”

At this word, Dean’s patient façade broke away into a rush of emotion. “I’m so sorry, Cas. I know I should have told you ages ago.”

The mental whiteout was back, but this time was different. Maybe, just maybe, he understood. And just the possibility was filling him up with little tendrils of panic and loss. Slowly, he composed himself enough to clarify. “Told me what, Dean?”

When he spoke, Dean’s voice was quiet, but determined. “It was me, Cas. I oversee the estate now, including the scholarship. I was gonna let the school or the estate lawyers or someone pick the recipients for the money after it got handed off to me, but—” He took a breath, fortifying, apparently, and sat up a little straighter. “I’ve been staying here for a while, and they still send the _Quarterly Review_ , so I read your story in the winter issue last year, and… it was so good. I just wanted to make sure you could keep writing, whoever you were.”

The moment froze as they both sat in the wake of this revelation, Castiel in shock, Dean exuding contrition through his very breath, both of them barely keeping their cool.

Finally, Castiel let out the question at the heart of this forming picture. “So, Mr. Michael Smith?”

“You’re looking at him,” Dean replied, gaze bouncing around the room, landing anywhere but on Castiel. “Dean Michael Winchester. Like you said right at the beginning, Smith was just a convenient alias.”

“And… my letters?”

This question made Dean wince. “That was Grandpa’s thing. He liked to correspond with the students each year. I wasn’t gonna, but – I just loved that story. I wanted to read more, but I’m shitty with words, as you know, so I… I had them change the rules to make it a one way thing. I’m sorry, Cas.”

Castiel gazed up at the portrait on the wall, completely floored as he ran through all sorts of emotions: through hurt, then fury, and on to mortification. He composed his next words slowly, hoping to get everything ironed out before letting any of these feelings overtake him. “So, let me make sure I understand this. Each month I sent a letter here addressed to ‘Mr. Smith’. Here, to this place where you have been living.”

“Yeah.”

“And you read them?”

Dean nodded, deflating a bit with each question.

But Castiel persisted. He needed to know. “All of them?”

Eyes closed in shame, Dean let out a tiny, “yeah.”

The admission, so small and apologetic, sent Castiel to his feet. He needed to move, to pace across the room, to look at things. He crossed toward one of the inset bookshelves, and let his eyes land on a photo of a young man and woman. This was not the couple from the portrait – the clothes were from the wrong era, and the woman’s hair was light and long. It hit Castiel that this must be John and Mary Winchester, early in their courtship. With a measured breath, Castiel let out some of his jumbled musings, thinking aloud. “I poured out everything in those letters. All my childhood bullshit, the isolation.” With a jolt, another piece slotted in to place, and he turned back to Dean. “I came out to you twice, then? And I mooned over you _to_ you for several months, assuming you weren’t into men?”

“Yeah, that was…” Dean’s words died out, as if to suggest that there was no explaining what that had been like.

Castiel was really watching him now, desperate to understand how mistaken he might about this man he considered his friend. “Did Ellen know?”

“ _No_.” Dean’s head shot up with the word, tone vehement, almost fearful. “No. You answered her ad yourself, remember? And she accepted you at face value. None of them had any idea we knew each other beyond the time I ambushed you and Bela in Charlevoix. No one knew, I swear.”

“No one?” Castiel asked, skeptical of the logistics of such secrecy in a life as full of friends as Dean’s. “It sure seems like Charlie had an inkling.”

Dean winced, but conceded with a guilty expression. “Only barely. I got kinda sad-drunk this past weekend and spilled it all to her, finally. She didn’t know before that, though. And she kicked my ass appropriately hard for being such an idiot all this time.”

“I see.”

“And I didn’t tell Ellen to invite you back, either, by the way,” Dean continued, clearly desperate to absolve his family of blame. “Promise. That was all her. She wants to adopt you, and I had nothing to do with that. “

“Apart from pointing me toward East Jordan in the first place,” Castiel corrected. But there was another possibility, wasn’t there? “Or was that Celeste’s idea?”

For a split second, Dean looked baffled. “Cele— Oh, right… Uh. ‘Celeste Middleton’ is actually just a false identity Charlie uses online sometimes. It’s just— you sounded so sad when you wrote about how you were gonna be stuck alone in the house over Christmas. I _had_ to write you back. But I was in too deep on staying anonymous and not responding by that point, and I really do suck at writing letters. But then… you had assumed that Archangel had a secretary, so I… invented one.”

Perhaps Castiel had entered The Twilight Zone. That was certainly possible, wasn’t it? “So, Celeste is _also_ you?”

“Yeah. Turned out to be easier to write as someone else, I guess.”

“Ah.”

In the silence that followed this exchange, Castiel opted to sit. Much better to run though all the dumb things he likely wrote to Dean while sitting, eh? Seemed like a safer bet.

When Dean spoke, he was closer, having moved a bit along the couch, though warily, and the look on his face was one of deep apology. “Cas, truly, I’m _so_ sorry for letting it go this far. I just—” He stopped himself, then, and changed tack. “That story? ‘The Society for Wayward Daughters’? I— I had been in a fog for ages, Cas. Probably since Sam left. But then Grandpa died, and Aaron and I broke up, and I was suddenly here in this huge house all on my own feeling completely lost. Reading your story was the first thing that brought me out of that at all. I was crying laughing at their antics, and little Hael reminded me of how Sam was when we finally got off the road to live with Bobby and I just… Nothing had, you know, _spoken_ to me like that since I first read _Cat’s Cradle_ in tenth grade, and I wanted so badly for the voice of this author to be out in the world. And, for once, I could maybe help with that, you know? I had all this money that I don’t know what to fucking do with, and I knew where you went to school, and with Grandma’s name I could actually make sure some money got to someone who really deserved it. I didn’t know who you were or if you even needed a scholarship, but for the first time this estate felt like a gift rather than a curse, and I knew what I had to do with it. I—” He broke off for a minute, staring down at his hands. “I didn’t realize how hard your letters would make it to stay away. I’m a weak guy. In the end I _had_ to meet the guy behind the words, and from the moment I did I was totally hooked. I mean…”

He followed this enigmatic half phrase with a gesture toward Castiel. The motion seemed to be very meaningful to Dean, but all Castiel could offer back was a confused head tilt.

“Look. I can’t expect you to forgive me for the months of lies. You have every right to hate my fucking guts. I do too, most days. I was gonna tell you all of this tomorrow, ‘cause I couldn’t stand it anymore and Charlie read me the riot act about stringing you along now that the scholarship is over.”

“Tomorrow.” That thought elicited a sad laugh from Castiel. Oh, how he had worried about tomorrow, all for nothing. “And here I thought it was a date.”

“It was,” Dean admitted, just as sadly. “I had this dream that maybe you would… I don’t know. Stick around, I guess. But I knew I had to tell you, regardless.”

Castiel had no idea what to do with that particular minefield, so he shifted to another nagging question. “And the, uh. The last letter? From this week? Did you read it?”

His reply was a guilty nod. “And hate me or not, but all that stuff you said? About you not being good enough? That’s bullshit, Cas. You’re a better man than I’ll ever be, and a hell of a lot smarter. This money? This house? I don’t belong here. It’s not me. I’m not some rich, powerful guy. You—you know my history. I know you do. I told you some of it, and the rest of it you got from Jo and recounted back to Archangel.”

 _Oh._ That made Castiel actually blush. Perhaps he had overstepped a bit here, too.

“All I’m saying,” Dean continued, “is you earned everything you got out of the scholarship, Cas. It came because of your writing, not my feelings. And your writing got you published with that hilarious piece in McSweeny’s, and it impressed all your professors at the Garden, and it got you that agent. Archangel didn’t do any of that. You did. That’s— that’s why I offered to keep up the sponsorship this year, too. ‘Cause I couldn’t stand the idea of you working a bunch of shitty jobs and being too tired to do anything else. I did that in high school, and it was hell. You deserve better, and I’m really glad you found it with Jody.”

Castiel, never having figured out how to respond to compliments such as these even in the best of times, took the easiest way out. He picked up his water glass from the coffee table and drained half of it, flailing around for a different angle.

After a silent minute, he found one. “You got me flowers.”

Apparently lost in the whiplash of the conversation, Dean shook his head slightly. “What?”

“At commencement,” Castiel clarified. “You brought me flowers, even though…You didn’t say anything.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean seemed to catch up. “For the record, I wasn’t there for Bela. I mean, I like her more than I did a year ago, and all. But I wouldn’t have gone to her graduation. I— I was gonna try to tell you all of this that night. You invited Archangel, after all— you deserved to have him there, even if he was actually just… you know. Me. But then…”

The end of the sentence did not seem to be forthcoming, so Castiel supplied it. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, affect suddenly a bit flat. “You looked cozy enough there with your boy Balthazar, and I didn’t—I didn’t want to… interrupt.”

Well, wasn’t this intriguing? “There was nothing to ‘interrupt’, Dean. Not in the way you imply. Balthazar and I are friends.”

“Yeah, well, he’d love to make it a little more intense than that, trust me. He looks at you like tweens look at stray boy band members. And given how you wrote about him—” In a flash, Dean’s mouth snapped shut.

Rather amused by this particular turn of events, Castiel raised a teasing eyebrow. “How did I write about him, exactly?”

“Your praise for him was… effusive,” Dean said, very carefully. “I’m pretty sure you made him out to be basically James Bond.”

“Did I?”

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “I got a little jealous. I do that sometimes, I guess. And then I bailed. I do that too, honestly.”

“And sent me more flowers?”

“Yeah… I got back to my hotel and realized how shitty it was gonna feel if Archangel just fucked off after you invited him, and I found a florist. Hyacinths mean ‘please forgive me’.” Castiel raised his eyebrows at that comment, unsure where it had come from. Dean, noticing the effect of his non-sequitur, rushed to explain, “Charlie dated a florist for a while and I learned way too much about the Victorian language of flowers. Now I’m afraid not to use it in case the person on the other end knows about it and freaks out.”

Choosing to let this strange fact pass for the moment, Castiel bowed to his curiosity. “And the others? What do they mean?”

“Right. Uh. You were so upset in that one letter when you were sick and feeling alone, so the irises were a message of friendship. And then with the sponsorship thing it was azaleas for ‘take care of yourself for me’. And potted, since you said you didn’t have much that was really ‘yours’. Oh, and the daffodils were for, uh, ‘regard’ and ‘new beginnings’.”

Castiel’s eyebrows continued to climb up his forehead as the list went on. But he couldn’t help himself. “And the jonquils?”

“Oh, um,” Dean was rubbing his neck again. He looked almost shy. “They can mean ‘desire for feelings to be returned’, I guess? But also, they’re kind of cheery and yellow- seemed like a friendly thing to have around. I just liked them.”

Castiel wasn’t sure he was fooled, but he took pity on the man. “That was very thoughtful, Dean. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, not lying to you for ten months might have been pretty thoughtful, too.”

“True,” Castiel offered, unsettled by the bitterness in Dean’s tone. He was really furious with himself about this, wasn’t he? And he was taking all the blame for it upon himself. Which seemed to be very ‘on brand’ for Dean Winchester, but perhaps he was overdoing it this time. Castiel was not blameless, and he needed to set his own record straight, just as he had intended to do during their meeting tomorrow. “But you’re forgetting I lied to you, too.”

“Huh?”

“Archangel knew what my history entailed, how alone I was in the world, but I never quite disclosed the extent of it to Dean Winchester.”

Understanding the distinction now, Dean let out a huff of disagreement. “You didn’t have to tell me anything, Cas. That was your business.”

“And yet you told me about Sam,” Castiel pressed. “Even Jo doesn’t know the whole truth about that, does she? Yet you told me months ago up at the ski lodge. And what did I do? I turned around and told the whole story to my benefactor – a complete stranger. I broke your confidence.”

Dean was shaking his head. “But it was just me. You just told me.”

“I didn’t know that, though, did I?” Castiel shot back, anxious for Dean to understand. “It never once occurred to me that I was writing to you. I thought Archangel was a snooty old white man with no hair and too much money.”

Somehow, what Dean focused on from that statement was, “You thought I was bald?”

“I didn’t have much to go on,” Castiel replied, frustrated. He could tell that Dean was deliberately missing the point now. “I couldn’t exactly Google ‘Michael Smith’ and expect to gain any kind of clarity.”

“Touché,” Dean conceded. “But, still. Cas, I only had the guts to tell you about Sam because I knew— you’d already written about the rest of my history with such understanding, you know? You made me sound like some kind of hero even in spite of it all, and you didn’t judge any of us. I’ve never— the only people who know this shit and still like me are the people who were there when it happened, and they mostly missed the worst parts. You—you’ve been through shit of your own and so have the characters you write, and yet you still manage to see the good in people. I knew I could trust you before I confided, so don’t make that sound like some huge risk.”

“Still. I trusted my Dean implicitly by the end of that ski trip. And yet all through the next six months I was still too afraid and ashamed to tell the truth.”

Dean was clearly poised to argue, never one to let himself be complimented. “Cas— “

“My point, Dean,” Castiel cut in, “is that we both fucked up here and there. So, stop taking all the blame on yourself.”

“I—” Dean looked baffled now, but Castiel’s insistence seemed to have stopped his argument for the moment. “Okay.”

With a nod, Castiel decided to take another chance. He picked up the manilla envelope from where he had left it tucked in the arm chair next to him, and held it out to Dean. Conspiratorially, he declared, “This is for you, Archangel.”

“What? Uh…” Cautiously, Dean took the envelope, his eyes glancing up at Castiel repeatedly as if waiting to be reprimanded. When no such response came, he finally opened it up, pulled out the small stack of cash, and immediately looked exasperated. “Cas – “

“It’s for the phone. I told you— “

“I don’t need it, though, Cas, I— “

“But I do,” Castiel stressed. “I need to repay at least part of this favor, Dean.” And when Dean looked poised to argue further, he added, “I will superglue it to your forehead if I have to.”

Dean put his hands up to placate. “Jeeze, okay, fine. But this is it, okay? You don’t owe me anything.”

Unwilling to bend but not wanting to backtrack in their tentative truce, Castiel simply said, “We’ll agree to disagree on that part. But I’m hoping the rest of this will go toward the remainder of the debt.”

With an unconvinced glance, Dean pulled out the rest of the contents of the envelope, and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. “Is— is this the novel?!”

Castiel nodded. “The first draft manuscript. I was in town with Missouri today to sign the paperwork for a publishing deal. They gave me a generous advance, so that money won’t set me back, really. Sarah and her team will be going through that draft with her people, and I’m sure it’ll get ripped to shreds, but I wanted you to have it.”

Dean looked so baffled it was almost funny. But there was hope finally stirring in his eye, and it warmed Castiel to see it. “Still? Even…now”

“Especially now, actually,” Castiel corrected, with a small smile. “Archangel funded the project, but you actually inspired it.”

“What?”

“Let’s just say your story was instrumental in the building of one of my main characters. I hope you’ll appreciate him.”

“I know I will,” Dean replied, clearly touched. “Thanks, Cas. I— just— thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , Dean.”

In the wake of this exchange, Dean just stared at the manuscript cover, stroking it reverently. It was utterly heartwarming to see the care with which Dean regarded his work, and all at once Castiel realized that he was going to forgive this man. That he was going to look back on this entire situation with fondness someday, for the way they both lost their way with each other but still forged a bond through the tangle. And with thoughts of jonquils and jealousies firm in his mind, Castiel made a decision, and shifted from his chair over to the couch.

“So, Archangel,”

“…Yeah?” Dean asked, startled to find Castiel suddenly so close.

“Since I have you here, finally,” Castiel continued, aiming for a tone both sincere and slightly coy. “I could use your advice.”

“Cas…”

“On that matter from my last letter,” he pressed on, undeterred by the mild warning of Dean’s interjection. “My dear friend who wants to take me out on a very sweet date? What do you suggest?”

“I—” Dean stared at him for a moment, measuring. Based on whatever he found there in Castiel’s eyes, he took a breath and carefully said, “I think you brought up an excellent point about the…dangers. I’d bet he’s just as terrified of losing the friendship as you are.” In a flash, his gaze intensified. “But I’m pretty sure he’ll forgive your worry about not telling him everything yet. You’re entitled to your secrets.”

“And so is he.”

That sent Dean’s eyes very wide. “Really?”

“Really,” Castiel assured him. “Especially if a secret was kept out of goodness.” Predictably, Dean looks poised to argue, but Castiel persists. “And then? Once I’ve told him everything? Then what? Do you really think he wants to date me?”

“I— yeah. Yeah, I think…I think from what you’ve told me—” Dean visibly swallowed, but continued, dispensing with the game in favor of a real answer. “I think it sounds like he’s pretty gone on you but doesn’t know how to tell you.”

And oh, if that didn’t knock the breath right out of Castiel’s chest… Entranced, he whispered, “You think so?”

“I do, yeah. And I think if you really look at the facts honestly, he’s not out of your league like you seem to think.”

“No?”

“Nah,” Dean said, quiet himself now, his trademark playfulness finally returning around the edges. “He sounds to me like a normal schlub who’s in way over his head with this whole inheritance thing. I’d bet he relates a hell of a lot better to you than to any of the wholesome preppy kids he hooked up with in undergrad.”

“I see,” Castiel replied, aiming for serious but rather too entranced by the curve of Dean’s lower lip. “Well, I’ll take that under advisement, then, thank you.”

And with that, he couldn’t keep from kissing Dean for a moment longer.

Apparently surprised, Dean muffled out, “Cas…”. But Castiel was not going to let this moment get away. He backed up just a hair’s breadth to raise his eyebrows at Dean. They stared, their gaze a physical thing there in the inch of space between them, as Dean checked for whatever he had been planning to ask about. Certainty, most likely. Well, Castiel had been wishing for this for nearly a year, and he was done with hiding the fact. There was no point now – he had no doubt admitted his love in writing several times over.

Dean must have gleaned what he needed from Castiel’s lusty impatience, because soon enough he was leaning right back in. And finally, _finally_ , Castiel was here, and Dean was starting to kiss him back, and it was everything.

Dean’s kiss, once he had relaxed, was a revelation of sorts. He seemed to have mastered the interplay of firmness and softness, the give and take of things that makes both parties melt, together. His lips were soft and his tongue was lightly teasing and his hands were steady on Castiel’s spine as Castiel let his own hand roam along Dean’s neck and into his hair—

A phone began to ring. It was nearby, apparently in Dean’s pocket, judging by the jerk of his hip at the sudden vibration. They broke apart with a chuckle, but Dean didn’t let go of Castiel as he pulled out the phone angrily to toss it aside. But then—

“Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked, still breathless from their ever-so-thorough kiss.

“It’s…” Dean was still staring at the phone screen, frozen. “That’s Sam’s number.”

Invigorated anew, Castiel looked down at the numbers on the screen, unnamed but with a definitively foreign area code. “What?”

Dean looked up at Castiel in a daze. “I took your advice and called him this morning. I left a voicemail.”

Touched, but focusing on the matter at hand, Castiel replied with all the gentleness he could muster through his compounding adrenaline. “Well? Are you going to answer?”

But Dean just looked lost, staring up at Castiel in something akin to terror. So, Castiel took Dean’s hand, clicked to answer, and handed it back with a reassuring nod.

He needed a deep breath, but Dean lifted the phone to his ear. “H-hello?”

Castiel began to lean back, happy to offer the brothers some privacy, but Dean wasn’t having it. He pulled Castiel close, near enough to hear the conversation, and gripped him tight for support.

Through the line came a low voice, and to Castiel’s relief that voice sounded equal parts hopeful and relieved. “Dean? Is…is that really you?

The smile that spread across Dean’s face then was utterly mesmerizing. He held Castiel close as he righted his world.

“Heya, Sammy.”

~

November 5, 2019

Dear Castiel,

You once joked that I owe you at least one letter after everything that happened with your scholarship and whatnot. And I know you were mostly kidding, just like you know how bad I am with words in general, let alone putting them down on paper. But, well, you weren’t wrong. You deserve at least one letter, even in my confused words.

I hope this letter finds you well. I mean, you were certainly “well” last night at trivia. Which isn’t last night to you any more, since I actually sent this through the mail and back to our place like a sap. So, I guess I hope I haven’t done anything to royally piss you off while this was in the mail. Or, if I did— which we both know is totally plausible— I hope I at least made you Apology Pie, like an adult. Or, if not… you know. Sorry.

Gotta say, things are going pretty spectacular for me. My job is pretty cool, since they let me nerd out about machines all day and then pay me for the privilege. My giant dork of a little brother met a really great girl in one of his law school classes and actually had the guts to ask her out, so I’ve got her to help me kick his ass when he needs it, now. My annoying little sort-of-sister is about to finish up her first semester of college and is impossibly smug about it, but I still couldn’t be prouder of her. (Please don’t tell her – I’ll never hear the end of it.)

And then there’s my awesome boyfriend. He’s a writer— like, for real, even his writer friends call him the Energizer Bunny ‘cause of how much he writes. He’s even published. He is so much cooler than me, and I fucking love it. He might be clueless when it comes to how to properly load a dishwasher, but he fucking writes me poetry. Who ever thought anyone would want to write sonnets to _me_? I certainly didn’t ‘til this glorious weirdo stormed into my life. Honestly, just the other night, totally off the cuff, he starts reciting this ode to my ass that was just…

Shit, I’m already swearing way more than I meant to. Sorry. The point is, I’ve been totally head over heels for this ridiculously gorgeous, brilliant dude for at least two years now, and even living with me hasn’t sent him running for the hills. So, that’s pretty cool. I don’t know how I got so damn lucky. Charlie’s “saved a planet with The Doctor in a past life” theory is seeming more reasonable by the day.

So, here’s the thing: I could use some advice…

As we’ve established, I’m completely fucking in love with my boyfriend. It’s all gross and mushy and feelings. I love it. I love when he’s been up all night working and glares up from the pillow when I kiss him goodbye in the morning. I love when he eviscerates bad movies with his commentary, and the adorable little furrow he gets in his brow when I say something incredibly dumb just for the hell of it. And— no joke— more than anything I just fucking love doing nothing with him. I mean, I love doing things with him too, don’t get me wrong. Sexy things _and_ not-sexy things. But just, like, reading the internet near each other? Half watching the news while playing Angry Birds? Driving up to the Roadhouse with the windows down and his hand on my knee? It’s bliss, honest to goodness.

My Mom, back in the day, used to tell Sammy and me that angels were watching over us. It was a nice lie to play on repeat back when our lives were just painted white lines and nasty motel curtains, but I didn’t really believe in angels after the fire. Shame, too, ‘cause – celestial beings aside— Mom knew what she was talking about. Somehow, some way, she knew that after all the bullshit that came of my life after she left us, an angel would find me and pull me out. He might not like me calling him an angel…he was raised on the avenging kind who judge arbitrarily and blindly police the world. That’s not how I see it. My angel is just a man, fallible as the rest of us, but forged in lonely fire and soft to the core. He listens like every prayer is equal and worthy of care, and his pen is the blade that builds worlds and then comes back to save them. He is the guardian of my heart— he’s had it longer than he knows— and nothing could ever make me happier than that truth.

So, advice? What do you think? If I came home the day this letter is delivered and got down on one knee and pulled out this ring I’ve been carrying in my pocket for two months? What do you think? Will my unbelievable streak of luck run out?

Let me know what you think.

Yours, forever,

Dean

**Author's Note:**

> To fans of the original "Daddy Longlegs", this is a departure in a lot of ways. I followed the original structure, but there's some stuff about the original plot that is #Problematic in a modern setting, in my opinion. So, if you were looking for purity, sorry. But also, I'm not, because some of that Turn of the Last Century stuff would seem downright creepy in the now. My aim, instead, was to try to capture Jerusha's irreverence and creativity in Castiel, and work the bones of the plot into the modern world. I hope it lives up to whatever expectations you had coming in!
> 
> Also, I recognize that The Garden would almost certainly never be recognized as a legitimate Grad School Program. But it's super loosely modeled on a summer camp I went to at 17 that changed my life, and I have no regrets. I wish things like this really existed at the collegiate level...


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